


Patience

by ama



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Friendship, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: The first card game Francis ever learns is Patience--a careful, solitary game, meant to teach him virtue. He keeps coming back to it over the years, especially when Gabriel Ashleigh comes into his life and conspires to drive him mad.
Relationships: Gabriel Ashleigh/Francis Webster
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Patience

The first thing he learns to do with a deck of cards is play Patience. He is a child in the schoolroom, standing beside his mother’s chair as her long white hands flick through the deck with inimitable grace, laying out the cards as she explains the rules. Francis wants to impress his mother, and he is somber and serious as he tries to keep the proper order of the cards in his head. The deck is new, a gift from his father, with turtle doves and wildflowers painted on the backs. One month ago, Father purchased the house Francis has lived in all his life, which is terribly important for reasons that are not entirely clear to him just now. Father celebrated by taking Francis and his mother and his little sister Susana around in a phaeton to drive around the wood, with birds all about them making a tremendous racket.

“Those are _Webster_ birds now, Francis,” his father said with a satisfied smile. “Which makes their singing the sweetest sound in England.”

“Yes, Francis, congratulate your father on having purchased the loudest birds in all England,” his mother teased. But his father only continued to smile, and told them to listen to what he claimed was a greeting—the turtle doves calling _halloo, look at me! halloo, look at me!_ Francis could hardly distinguish the call from all the rest, let alone hear words in it, but he pretended he did.

He is reflecting on this pleasant out-of-doors memory when he notices with a start that his mother is already moving the cards, placing red on black—and that she has missed something.

“Mama! Mama, look—the two of hearts! You have put it on the three, but it must go on the ace, Mama, mustn’t it? And then _that_ three will follow!”

“ _Must_ I do that, Francis?” she asks, very solemnly, and he hesitates.

“Well—no.”

“Why might I want to keep them for later?”

“I suppose… I suppose you might keep the three, in case it is useful. But the two hasn’t a use at all.”

“Perhaps not,” she smiles. “But Patience is not only a game—it is a virtue. If it were only a game, I might put the two away immediately, for the thrill of winning a point. But because it is a virtue, too, I will take my time. I will be cautious, and build each tower carefully, and have faith that a greater reward awaits when I have finished.”

And she does. Her hands are slow and careful, arranging each card in precise lines with its fellow. Francis watches, and does his best to assist her, and he feels all the pride of shared triumph when his mother reaches the end of the deck, when there are four aces at the top of the little tea table and four columns, king to two, beneath them.

“You see, my love? Step by step, we have built our victory, and now we may enjoy it fully.”

She leaves it to him to match the cards to their proper suits, although she does gently correct him each time he would swap clubs for spades on accident. When there are four piles before her, she picks them up and begins to shuffle.

“That is the proper way of doing things, Francis. Step by step. Your grandfather was a weaver. He was a very good weaver, and his clients paid him well, and he could have spent all his income and lived a comfortable life, and raised a very good weaver for a son. But he had patience. He saved his pennies and used them to educate his son. That is how you ended up with such a clever father, clever enough to design his own looms and patient enough to save his pennies and raise _his_ son as a gentleman.”

It is important, Francis knows, to be a gentleman. He must be a gentleman, and Susana must be a lady, and everything his family has ever done since anyone can remember has all been towards this purpose. But Francis is at an age when it does not seem very difficult to be a gentleman—not in the _general_ sense, at least, although it can be very difficult sometimes to be quiet when visitors are in the house, and not kick his heels against the furniture. He nods along, but his full attention is on the cards.

* * *

At Eton, Francis learns that it is actually very difficult to be a gentleman, because he is the son of a blasted commoner, and because the real ‘gentlemen,’ such as the elegantly bred son of the Duke of Warminster, are some of the vilest people it has ever been his misfortune to know.

He has very few friends at Eton. He has books, some favorite spots on the grounds where he can pass an undisturbed hour, one or two classmates who will revise with him in the mutual understanding that they will melt away when Maltravers appears—and a new deck of cards, a parting gift from his mother. The edges of her old turtle dove cards have long since gone soft, and the new deck is a little difficult to manage. The cardstock is slippery and stiff, and Francis is annoyed the first few times he tries to shuffle and spills cards over the tabletop.

Soon enough, the cards begin to yield. For most of his first year he keeps the deck in his pocket, riffling the edges with his thumb and hoping desperately that his schoolmasters won’t confiscate it. He takes comfort in its presence. He misses his mother terribly.

More than anything, he hates leisure time, when there is no schoolwork to be done and the boys gather with their friends to play games and talk away from the prying eyes of their elders. This is when Maltravers, buoyed by his cronies and the audience, has the opportunity to be the most vicious. Sometimes he takes the opportunity, but it is almost worse when he doesn’t, when he pretends to ignore Francis and lets the tension build to an unbearable pitch. Francis is painfully aware of being watched. He cannot approach any of the other boys, or else he will be rejected and everyone will see—he cannot sit and stare at the wall, or else he will cry and everyone will see. He cannot approach Maltravers and punch him in the nose, or else he might simply be killed.

He plays endless games of Patience and pretends to be unbothered.

* * *

Life improves at Oxford. His feud with Maltravers does not dissipate, but at a certain age, physical violence and schoolboy taunts become less amusing than they once were. They are men, now, and their insults must take on some degree of sophistication, which means that Francis finally has the edge in this contest. His set-downs are biting; some men find them amusing, and a few are rich, titled, or principled enough to befriend Francis even if it risks offending a future duke. He plays more social games—piquet, whist, vingt-et-un—and earns admiration if not affection. One night, he plays with a friend and a bottle of whiskey, and they end up abandoning the cards for a different kind of game entirely.

There is some little drama surrounding the affair. Ultimately, Francis knows of three others with his inclinations. None of them are properly in love, but they all share the inconstancy, self-importance, and animal urges of young men between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, which means that there are several rapid and dramatic exchanges of partners. It is silly and childish, and Francis quickly tires of the whole thing. He probably would have gone off love affairs entirely, if he hadn’t left school as the avowed companion of Ambrose Lynch, easily the most handsome and charming of the lot.

It is through Ambrose that he meets the Ricardians, albeit indirectly. The Lynches are rather fond of Francis and invite him to stay often at their London house, where he occasionally sits to tea or dinner with one of their neighbors—Lord Richard Vane. One evening, Ambrose gets too deep in his cups and make a few ribald jokes. The men around them hardly blink, but Francis sees Richard’s lips purse and his heart drops. Surely they are ruined.

The time comes for them to join the ladies in the drawing room. Francis, full of dread, is one of the last to reach the door, but there he finds Richard lingering.

“A pity some men find it difficult to restrain themselves after a few drinks,” he murmurs, low enough for only Francis to hear. “But they are fortunate, if they have friends who are more discreet.”

“Indeed,” Francis replies likewise.

A look of understanding passes between them.

He does not become Richard’s intimate right away. That happens after—after his sister Susana becomes engaged. After his father dies of sudden and unexpected heart failure. After Francis returns to London, numb with shock and grief, to find that Ambrose, too, is engaged, and that his own cordial relationship with the elder Lynches has gone distinctly cold. They hardly deign to offer their sympathy for his loss, leaving him utterly befuddled.

“You can’t blame them, Francis,” Ambrose says with a shrug when they are alone. “They wanted me to marry Susana, of course.”

“They _what?”_ Francis demands, before he realizes suddenly that he is not shocked at all, because the Lynches are old money with little money left.

He has a few choice words for the man who was quite happy to fuck him while meaning to woo his sister, and he storms out in a dreadful state and almost crashes into Richard when he turns down the lane. Richard grabs an elbow to steady him.

“Webster,” he says in a somber voice. “Pray, allow me to express my condolences at your father’s passing.”

Francis nods jerkily. He has heard some variation of these words many times over the last few weeks, but he is no closer to formulating a gracious response. Richard doesn’t seem to mind.

“I lost my own father when I was about your age,” he continues. “He was an elderly gentleman by then, but… the world does seem rather unsteady for a time.”

He lets go of Francis’s arm. Richard is tall, taller than Francis and much broader, and he has a deep, comforting voice. Francis is hard-pressed to imagine that the man before him is ever unsteady, but neither does he believe that he is in the habit of delivering comfortable lies.

“Yes,” he says. “Quite. I appreciate your saying so, Lord Richard, even though my father was unknown to you. He was a good man.”

“I am sure.” Richard glances at the door behind him. “And now I hear your friend is to be married?”

“Yes. To a Miss Emily Johnson, I believe. I don’t know her well.”

He isn’t sure if he knows her at all. He has a vague idea that she must be one of a handful of silly, blushing heiresses in pastel gowns always giggling together at parties until they are whisked away by unenthusiastic younger sons, but to admit this seems callous.

“No?” Richard pauses and their eyes meet. He clears his throat. “I know it happens sometimes that when a man marries, he drops some acquaintances from his bachelorhood. That can also be a very upsetting occurrence.”

“No doubt it is for some,” Francis says coolly. “And in some cases, it is much the better for everyone involved.”

“Quite. Well, if you ever find yourself in need of steadier companionship, do come join us in the private rooms at Quex’s one evening. I will put your name down with Shakespeare.”

Francis is well acquainted with the _public_ rooms of Quex’s. It is one of the few gaming hells in London that accommodates his tastes in atmosphere as well as games—high stakes and able players, but with an air of civilized restraint. He has never been in the private rooms, and it has been a point of curiosity for him that those who frequent them are, by and large, _not_ the kind of committed gamesters who would otherwise enjoy themselves at such a club. He is rather amused to find his curiosity satisfied in such a way. He accepts Richard’s invitation, tips his hat, and departs.

* * *

Some things change. Others stay the same.

Francis has friends but few intimates. He takes lovers but rarely keeps them for very long. He plays cards frequently—and Patience most of all, keeping his own counsel, keeping everything in order and under control.

* * *

The night everything changes does not feel at all significant. One of his father’s friends invites him to a private concert of Beethoven’s string quartets. It is an extremely pleasant evening—a small party of close acquaintances, good music to relieve some of the burden of conversation, an excellent supper, then off to Quex’s. He plays a few rounds of cards before checking his pocket watch. It is later than he thought, and he declines the offer of another hand. It is high time he joins his friends in the upstairs room for a congenial drink.

As he crosses the room, there is a commotion at the other end of it—or what passes for a commotion at Quex’s. It centers around a pack of lively young men, their natural spirits enhanced by spirits of an altogether different kind. There is one in particular with an aura of unrestrained glee, one arm flung around his friend’s neck, moving forward as much from inertia as from intention—until he stops dead in front of Francis, and jerks his head up to look him full in the face.

Francis stops, too, out of habit, and feels a jolt of admiration. He is an extremely good-looking young man, alabaster cheeks flushed an appealing pink, expensive clothes cut to show off the line of his leg and the trimness of his waist, a cupid’s-bow mouth set in good-humored lines, and golden curls spilling over his forehead. That is the fashion, of course, and there are any number of young fops in the city who spend hours in front of the mirror while their valets try to get their hair to curl and tousle just so—but Francis does not think this boy is one of them. There are some things one just cannot imitate.

Even more alluring are his eyes. Pale and pearlescent like smoke, their exact color difficult to distinguish in the room by lamplight—Francis might have leaned forward to make a foolish attempt at doing so, if the boy had not dropped his gaze. Shyness? Perhaps. Unlikely. In the moment of stillness that follows there is… a lingering. _No,_ Francis thinks, _not shyness_ —but before he can think of anything to say, the boy opens his mouth.

“By Jove, it’s Spinning Jenny!”

Heat floods Francis’s face. The boy looks up again, his mouth stretched in a grin. Good Lord—it’s Maltravers’s brother. The family resemblance is certainly not strong, but there is enough of it there, in that devil-may-care grin, to set Francis’s teeth on edge. This must be the youngest brother; Francis hasn’t seen him in years, since he left Eton, and has only the vaguest memories of a little slip of a thing, trotting after Maltravers when the older boy was in a good mood, nowhere to be found when he wasn’t.

“Lord Gabriel Ashleigh,” the young man introduces himself, drunkenly over-pronouncing each syllable and reaching for Francis’s hand in a careless shake. “But _you_ can call me Ash—and what should I call you? Lord, what was the one—Web–Webster—no, no, that’s simply your name, isn’t it? Oh, it was web-something, and I thought it was actually _quite_ clever. Mal spent ages thinking it up—he needed to, you know, because—” His voice drops to a loud conspiratorial whisper. “—he’s really not that clever. Spider Webs!” he blurts out. “ _That’s_ what it was. Not a bad pun, don’t you think?”

The declaration is accompanied by a wave of laughter from his friends, and the very brief, faint flicker of amusement in Francis’s chest is abruptly snuffed out. He stands there in a haze of mortification as Ashleigh proceeds to conjure up half a dozen jokes and nicknames that Francis was quite happy to abandon a decade ago. The more he talks, the more Francis feels embarrassment crystallize into anger. He looks down his nose and presses his lips tight together.

Ashleigh trails off into a quizzical silence after a moment, his grin flagging as he wonders why Francis isn’t joining in the fun. Then, finally, he seems to take in his rigid posture, his narrow eyes, the severe line of his mouth. The pink of his cheeks darkens, and he is not smiling anymore. He clears his throat, and the young fellow holding him up shifts his weight awkwardly, as though he would rather not be in the line of fire. Francis registers the movement out of the corner of his eyes but he is still staring hard at Ashleigh, until finally the boy is forced to look away.

“If I wished to hear the squalling of toothless brats, I should pay a call on my sister’s nursery,” he says coldly, with a silent apology to James and Benjamin, who are decent little chaps despite their prodigious lungs. “I commend it to you for a visit, Lord Gabriel. You would feel quite at home.”

There is a chorus of guffaws that would be gratifying, if he gave a damn about anyone in the room—as is, he’s more infuriated by the certain knowledge that some of these men are too young or too old to have heard the name _Spider Webs_ at Eton or Oxford, but who will gladly pass it around now, if for no other reason than to delight in the gaucheness of a duke’s third son. He is not sure if he is most furious at those busybody bystanders, Maltravers for coming up with the taunt in the first place, himself for still caring—or Lord Gabriel Ashleigh. At the moment, he thinks, Ashleigh has the lead.

“Piquet, anyone?” he asks briskly the moment he enters the upstairs common room. They don’t normally go for cards, up here, but there’s a deck bouncing around somewhere, and he would very much like to _take_ something from someone.

“I think not,” Dominic declines. Richard half-rises from his chair.

“Is everything all right?”

“Fine.” Francis strides to the drinks table and pours himself a glass of whiskey. His hands shake, and few drops spill onto the cloth. He forces himself to sip slowly; the burn is more pleasant when it lasts longer. “Do we have a fourth for whist?”

“Afraid not.”

“Fine.” He spots the deck of cards tossed carelessly on a bookshelf. “I suppose it’s Patience, then.”

He takes a seat by the fire and shuffles the cards, then begins to lay them out on the table. He snaps them down with more force than necessary, and the cards go askew. The look exchanged between Dominic and Richard is near audible, like the rasp of a violinist’s first practice draw. God help him, they’re his friends and Francis cares for them as dearly as he cares for anyone, but sometimes the strength of their attachment is absolutely insufferable.

“For heaven’s sake, Francis,” Dom says. “What’s troubling you?”

“I am not _troubled._ ” He scowls down at the errant cards and thinks of his mother’s turtle doves. He takes a breath, counting to ten before the exhale, and carefully aligns the corners. “But if I ever have occasion to meet the Duke of Warminster, I shall have to call him out. His sons have the most appalling manners.”

“Maltravers is not here?” Richard starts.

“No, not Maltravers. Lord Gabriel,” he drawls.

“Absurd name,” Dom offers supportively. “The middle brother, too, doesn’t he have something fanciful like that?”

“Raphael, I think,” Francis snorts, his irritation giving way momentarily to spiteful amusement. “The duchess is a little overfond of Milton, I suspect—or visited the Continent one too many times and started imagining her sons painted on some chapel ceiling somewhere.”

“May well have. Warminster Hall’s old enough to have cloisters, I suppose.”

“I have not spent above a moment of my life contemplating the architecture of Warminster Hall.” The game is not progressing auspiciously; he is forced to abandon his mother’s principle and sacrifice the two and three of diamonds to impatience, revealing hidden cards. Then he smirks. “There must be a coming-of-age portrait of Maltravers rattling around somewhere. Pity the poor artist. Either he painted true and had to bear the brunt of the man’s wounded pride, or he compromised his integrity most severely. I’ll give Lord Gabriel that: he had the good sense to be handsome, if he couldn’t help being an idiot.”

“What did he _do_?” Richard says, quickly tiring of a conversation in which neither his generous heart nor his liberal resources can be brought to the aid of his friends.

“Nothing worth thinking about,” Francis admits. He downs the rest of his whiskey and stares down at the cards for a moment, hardly seeing them. It’s not a very good setup. He could finagle a win somehow, possibly—but there doesn’t seem much point. He tosses down the card in his hand with an explosive sigh and slumps back in his chair. “He’s bosky and too carefree by half, and absolutely flabbergasted at the thought that I might not find his brother’s schoolboy witticisms as funny as he does. Shakespeare has already dealt with it.”

“Hmph. I’ve heard it said that Lord Gabriel is very charming, but I must say, I don’t have much of an opinion on him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the fellow sober past six in the evening.”

“You’ve heard, I suppose, that the duke—” Dom starts.

“I don’t want to talk about Gabriel Ashleigh,” Francis snaps. The vehemence in his voice takes him by surprise, and there is a moment of silence. The fire pops. Francis sweeps up the cards from the table and taps the deck smartly, then begins to shuffle. “Have you made a decision about Captain Norreys, Richard?” he asks, attempting a casual tone. He falls short of the mark, but Richard obliges him anyway.

“Yes—I’m afraid the issue of his brother has decided me.”

“What of him?”

“Well, we certainly can’t admit _him,_ and I don’t feel comfortable relying on his discretion regarding men who are not his personal intimates. It’s a pity. Julius is a very amusing fellow, and principled in his own way.”

“You don’t think he can keep secrets from his brother?”

“I don’t know, but I am disinclined to ask him to do so. It seems improper.”

“You keep secrets from _your_ brother,” Dom points out.

“My elder brother. It’s different with twins, don’t you think?”

The conversation continues. Francis pays it the minimum of attention. This is a better deal, and he is more occupied by the pitter-patter of the cards.

* * *

Three days later, Francis is at the tables at White’s when there is a loud quiet, or a quiet loudness—that particular Society phenomenon, wherein there is not a silent person in the room but no one dares raise their voice above a whisper. It means something amusing and scandalous is afoot. At first he takes no notice. Most of what the _ton_ finds amusing or scandalous is hardly worth the breath to speak of. After a few moments, though, Francis begins to realize that the only quiet men in the room are the ones sitting closest to him at the tables, and they are stealing very frequent glances at him. For him to be the center of attention, that must mean—

 _Maltravers?_ He wonders idly, taking care not to let a flicker of interest on his face betray him. _Or Lord Gabriel?_ Or, perhaps, most intriguing, the elusive Captain Raphael. That would also be the most unlikely, as the captain makes no secret of preferring a frigate to a gentleman’s club, and the most concerning, because in all likelihood he is perfectly capable of spitting Francis on the end of a sword, if he so chooses. Yes, Francis decides, if there is _one_ Ashleigh brother he prefers to remain on decent terms with, it is the second.

 _But on the other hand…_ he thinks upon hearing a pointed clearing of the throat, _the third is so absurdly good-looking._

He looks up. Their eyes meet; the younger man has been watching him, with an expression on his face that Francis cannot parse. Apprehensive, certainly. There is a flush in his cheeks that speaks of embarrassment, but something about the set of his mouth that is more like—anger. What does Lord Gabriel _possibly_ have to be angry about?

And what is the damn color of his eyes? They look blu _er_ in this light, certainly, but blue alone is such a paltry description.

“Good morning, Webster,” Ashleigh says.

Francis inclines his head in a nod that can pass for polite. Ashleigh falters.

“Er—all’s well, I trust?”

“Perfectly.”

“Excellent. I suppose you’re wanting—”

 _An apology?_ Francis thinks, lifting one eyebrow. The faint blush on the young man’s cheek darkens—set off against the warmth, his eyes look grey, almost _purple_ —and he loses his nerve.

“—to get on with your game.”

Francis nods again.

“Right, then.”

“Good morning, Lord Gabriel,” he says somberly.

Ashleigh flees, recouping to a corner with a pack of young hounds, who pat him on the shoulder and shove a fortifying drink in his hand. He says something explosive—quietly enough that no one else can hear, but even from a distance Francis can tell that, yes, there is anger there. Ashleigh looks over his shoulder and then hastily away when he sees that Francis is still watching. The poor bastard looks absolutely miserable.

“Your bet, Webster,” his opponent murmurs. Francis looks down at his cards. His face does not change, but a satisfied hum catches in his throat. Unless he is very much mistaken—and he is not typically mistaken—this is a winning hand.

* * *

He can’t sleep.

Francis rolls from side to side and abuses his pillows, but there is nothing to be done about it. He is unbearably tense. He’s been tense for three days, often short-tempered and sometimes distracted. When he woke up this morning, he had resolved to visit Millay’s in the evening for some well-deserved relief, but when evening came, for whatever reason, he felt… disinclined.

“Hell and the devil, man,” he reproaches himself, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.

It is midnight, he is alone, he is undressed, he is a shift of the sheets away from full arousal—he might as well admit that he knows exactly why he isn’t at Millay’s, and the reason is Gabriel fucking Ashleigh. Francis has left molly houses satisfied on many occasions, but he has never once met a man there with golden curls just begging to be yanked at, or such lovely lips stretched in a cavalier grin, or anything approaching the casual arrogance that comes from being born a duke’s son. He has never in his life come across a man so worthy of being bent over a table and fucked until he sobs, and a casual encounter with some molly boy is a poor substitute for what he wants.

He thinks back to their encounter at Quex’s. There had been that moment when Ashleigh’s eyes raked over him, and he could have sworn there was a flicker of desire. He pushes down the hot shame that rises if he allows the memory to play out. He focuses on the breathless silence when Ashleigh had trailed off and waited—everyone in the room had waited, but it was Ashleigh who mattered, whom Francis held in thrall. He shuts his eyes and lets his hand drift down his abdomen. Christ. He’s already hard.

They had not spoken again, at White’s. Ashleigh fumbled and looked miserable and left, and not another word passed between them. Francis could initiate more, though. He could send a note, direct Ashleigh to call on him. Here, in his home, no witnesses. He could dismiss the servants and meet Ashleigh in the entryway and say _“I think you owe me an apology, Lord Gabriel.”_

_“What for?”_

Insolent boy. Of course he would never admit an apology was in order. This afternoon, he couldn’t bear to force the words past his lips. Francis could try to explain, but soon enough he would lose his temper—grab the other man—kiss him—and then they would be on the same page. An apology was quite beyond Ashleigh’s ken, but he was a high-spirited young buck and he would be familiar with a good fucking. Francis would _make_ him familiar. He would push the boy to his knees, accept an apology in the form of lips wrapped around his prick.

He pauses for one agonizing moment, his cock throbbing, and fumbles in the drawer of the bedside table. He slicks up his hand with too much oil, just on the wrong side of sloppy, but he drags his hand up and down and sighs, forcing all thoughts of laundry out of his mind. It would be sloppy. High-born Lord Gabriel is not a paid molly boy; he is used to taking pleasure, not giving it, and he would choke a little and pull back and get spit on his chin. But he would be enthusiastic about it, of that Francis is sure. His breath is coming fast and heavy now, loud in the quiet room, interspersed with the obscene squelching sound of his strokes.

Would he come down his throat, he wonders? Or pull back and spend all over his pretty face—God, there’s a thought. But no. No, because Ashleigh is twenty-one and gets a cockstand at the slightest provocation, and he’d damn well get one with Francis’s prick crammed in his mouth. Besides, this can’t end before Francis sees him naked. He wants to strip him down, watch that pretty pink flush bloom on his collar bones, tug softly at the curls at the base of his cock. He wants to hear Ashleigh gasp and whimper and beg. He won’t apologize, but oh, he’ll beg. _Webster, please, damn it all, please, Webster, I need it, I need you_ and it won’t matter what other names he knows, because he is entirely at Francis’s mercy—

With a tremendous force of effort, Francis lets go. He lays both arms flat on the mattress and digs his hands in the sheets and gulps in air. He’s going to spend. It has been a very long time since he had conjured an idea this vivid. Mostly he relies on memories—Ambrose, various men in various molly houses. Occasionally he fantasizes, but almost never about anyone who is a real possibility. Most of the other Ricardians are attractive men, but the complications that would arrive from such entanglements do not appeal to him, and his idle speculations do not leave this room.

 _Lord Maltravers’s brother is not a real possibility, either,_ the rational part of his mind informs him sternly. There it is. That thought cools him down—at least enough so that he can get to the good part without coming all over himself in surprise like a schoolboy. He drags his hand up his shaft slowly, pulls off, strokes again, root to tip. Pictures himself grabbing Ashleigh by the shoulder and pushing him down on the table. Kicking his legs apart. He would make him ask one more time, as penance. He wonders, belatedly, if Ashleigh might object after all. Try to claim some vestige of the dignity due to him as a lord, if only an honorary one. Oh, he would want Francis to ride him, of course he would, but he might _demand_ instead of beg. That wouldn’t do. He has absolutely no inclination to give in to the young whelp’s demands.

He would lean over him. He would nudge his cock in between those shapely thighs and growl in his ear, remind Ashleigh that Francis doesn’t need to fuck him to take _his_ pleasure. It would be more enjoyable for them both if Francis had his arse, but he is perfectly content to slip between his shapely thighs, digging his fingers into his hips until he left bruises. Ashleigh would whimper and whine, unable to spend with such little stimulation, the rhythm of Francis’s body against his reminding him constantly of what he _really_ wanted—

“Oh! Oh—oh, God. Shit.”

Francis’s body snaps like a bowstring and he collapses against the pillows. Eventually, his gasping breaths becomes quieter, slower, more even. He reaches around blindly for a handkerchief and cleans himself up, and then rolls on his side and closes his eyes. The bed is much more comfortable than it was a few minutes ago, and every bit of tension has drained from him. Christ, he hasn’t spent so hard in a good long time.

He can even think of his imaginary companion with something approaching composure. Is there not a _hint_ of possibility there, he wonders? That moment—that look down his body—was there not something in it? His thoughts are fuzzy. Better not to think on it tonight. It’s late. Some other day. There is no rush.

 _I can be patient,_ he thinks drowsily, before he succumbs to sleep.

* * *

There is very little overlap between Francis’s social circle and Ashleigh’s, but _little_ is not _none._ Richard warns him that if he ever stays at Arrandene during the shooting season, it is very likely that Ashleigh and his friend Freddy Perkins will make up one of the parties, as Perkins lives in the same neighborhood. They both have membership at White’s, of course—and then there are the balls.

Francis goes to few balls, as a rule, but it is a delicate balance. If he attends too many, he risks offending many young ladies in his stubborn refusal to dance. If he attends too few, he risks offending all the hostesses of London. He compromises by attending only the balls thrown by people whom he especially likes, or the ones that can be deemed a _crush_ , when there is such a surfeit of gentlemen in the room that he can be of little interest to anybody. And, inevitably, Ashleigh is there. He is a young, rich, amiable idiot, well-mannered when he’s sober, with no political, business, or religious leanings that would make him a bore at such an event. Francis tells himself he does not mind at all. He has no desire to court public attention by having a second public animosity with a duke’s son—the same duke, no less—so he does his best to ignore him. Increasingly, however, Ashleigh is making it difficult.

This particular evening, Francis attends a ball hosted by a Mr. and Mrs. Perry. He likes the Perrys, as much as he likes anyone. He puts a tolerable effort into making himself agreeable. He makes polite conversation. He fetches lemonade. He lets three matrons prattle on about their daughters for a good five minutes each before making his excuses and dashing their hopes of matrimony. When he does retire to the card room, he plays only a few rounds of piquet against his host before agreeing to make a fourth at a game of whist, which is undoubtedly a much more sociable game. Everything is going rather well, until a group bursts through the door in a fit of merriment. He recognizes Lord Gabriel and two of his intimates, each accompanied by a young lady. They settle in to play lotto. A ridiculous game—Francis has never had time for such fripperies. He focuses on his own cards. He collects his trumps and his winnings. When he gets that unnerving sensation that someone is watching him, he ignores it, and he absolutely does not listen to the conversation happening at the next table over.

He isn’t so insensible, though, that he can ignore the conversation entirely, especially when the whist players are down to their last round and they all quiet, focusing intently on their cards. Ashleigh is talking to a Miss Veronica Neal, the eldest daughter of some knight or other. She plays the piano better than any other genteel woman in London, has been declared a “raven-haired beauty” by every young gentleman with Byronic inclinations, is set to inherit a fortune of twenty-five thousand pounds, and would do almost anything to utter those blessed words, “my father-in-law, the duke, you know—”

She also happens to be very clever, or at least clever enough to realize that marrying Maltravers is too steep a price to pay for that privilege. In short, she is the kind of woman that the third son of a duke, with only a paltry townhouse and not much fortune to his name, ought to be fawning over.

“Do you intend to return to the ballroom for the last dances, Ash?” she asks coyly.

“Hm? Oh, I hadn’t given it a thought.”

“I love the Boulanger. It’s quite my favorite.”

“Jolly good one, yes.”

“In fact, that is the _one_ thing I hope for, to count a ball as a success—to be dancing when it ends. May the evening be ever so dull or dreary, I will think the whole thing splendid so long as I am engaged for the final dance.”

“It hasn’t been such a dull evening, has it?”

Francis presses his lips tight to suppress the laugh that threatens to burst free. _Is he truly that great a fool?_ he wonders. _Or does he find poor Miss Neal objectionable for some reason?_ He takes a moment to look up, very casually, and see if the gentleman’s face gives a hint as to how he leans.

He is caught out immediately, because Ashleigh is not looking at Miss Neal—he is looking at Francis. It is subtle, out of the corner of his eye, but undeniable. Perhaps he is considering another attempt at an apology, Francis thinks ironically. Maybe he intends to doll it out word by word, stretched over months, to make the endeavor acceptable to his pride. Well, Francis has no interest in Ashleigh’s apologies. He certainly doesn’t intend to sit around for months waiting for them, let alone let his distraction cost him a hand at whist. He turns his head back to the table without even a nod of acknowledgement. Rude, but not rude enough for Ashleigh to call him out. He drops the ten of clubs on the table, and there is a groan from his opponents and a pleased exclamation from his partner.

“I knew you would not let me down, Mr. Webster,” Lady Falkland beams. “How clever of you, to be keeping that trump all this time.”

“I am glad I could be of assistance, your ladyship.”

“I call it a very mean trick,” Mrs. Perry scolds. “I think it uncommonly rude, sir, to best your hostess so thoroughly.”

“I do apologize, madam,” he says solemnly. “And if you would remain for another game, I would happily offer myself as your partner and try to make amends.”

“Not tonight. I’m afraid I promised Lord Sennex that I would close the dancing with him—but you all must certainly stay and play another game, if you would like.”

“I’m up for it,” her partner says congenially. “I will even let you keep Webster, Lady Falkland—I’ll hunker down and win some of my shillings back, you see if I don’t.”

“By yourself, Sir David?” Francis asks, raising an eyebrow. “I believe we are still one player short of a table.”

The timing is nothing short of impeccable.

“Freddy,” Ashleigh says at the next table. “Did you know Miss Neal isn’t engaged for the last dance? It’s the most shocking thing. You must escort her.”

“It would be my delight.”

Freddy bows graciously, and Miss Neal can do little more than murmur her thanks and take his arm. One of the other couples is already promised to each other, and the remaining lady has a prearranged partner already in the ballroom, and that leaves Ashleigh with nothing to do except stand and offer himself to Sir David as a fourth at whist.

“You must be take great care, Ash,” Lady Falkland says with mock solemnity. Of course she knows him well enough to use the shortened form of his name. There is hardly anyone in London, it seems, who is not on friendly terms with Ashleigh—except for Francis. “Mr. Webster and I are quite prepared to draw blood this evening.”

“Well then you shall simply have to be kind to me, because we’re friends,” he says flippantly. “And as for Webster—” He takes the seat opposite and meets Francis’s gaze. His smile takes on a harder edge, a hint of a dare. “I daresay I could give him a challenge.”

“Perhaps,” Francis says. He is unable to prevent the faintest curve to his lips, but he looks down and shuffles the cards to mask it.

He wins. Of course he wins. He would take Ashleigh for every shilling in his purse, except that it would be unfair to Sir David. Only at game’s end does he look at Ashleigh again, quirking one eyebrow. Ashleigh’s good mood is long gone. He looks up at Francis and his mouth stretches in an outright frown. It’s not only that he lost. It’s that he has seen Francis play, at White’s and at Quex’s, and he knows exactly how much he usually wagers. To lose is grating. To lose and be shown mercy is worse.

Ashleigh forces a smile. Francis smirks, and the muscle in Ashleigh’s jaw jumps.

“Well,” he says lightly. “That’s that, then.”

He makes a very pretty apology to Sir David for letting him down, and invites him to have a drink as penance. Lady Falkland seeks her husband and carriage. Francis remains at the table, alone, for another minute more. He shuffles the deck. A slow riffle, a quick bridge, and a pause. He is thinking of patience. Of something building. Step by step.

* * *

His mother dies a week before his next birthday.

Francis isn’t there when it happens. His mother doesn’t like London, so she splits her time between his estate, his sister’s, and Bath. He receives a cheerful letter from Highgate Park detailing the growth of his nephews, hinting that his sister is increasing once more, and mentioning offhand that she has a bit of a cold, but that she is greatly looking forward to bringing the whole family to Rookwood Hall for his birthday. Francis is making preparations to open the house—penning a note to his steward, as a matter of fact—when he receives a much more somber letter from Highgate, written by his brother-in-law this time. Not a cold. Pneumonia. Fatal.

The next few weeks are a blur in his memory. He knows that he traveled, spoke to people, comforted his family, was comforted in turn, made a thousand decisions, and whiled away the hours. He cannot remember how. He cannot lay out the timeline of the events with any accuracy. The moment that remains, most clearly, is going back to Rookwood, after the funeral, and standing in the doorway of his mother’s bedroom while her lady’s maid sniffles and dithers over the packing. In truth, there is very little to be done. She had been at Highgate for two months, so many of her possessions were already packed and ready for the attic. Francis sends Brennan down to the kitchens for a cup of tea, and goes through the rest of her things himself.

Most of what he finds is sentimental. A cross necklace, so modest that she hadn’t worn it for twenty years or more. A stack of letters from his father and the old turtle dove playing cards. Miniatures of himself and Susana in a folding silver frame. And on the dresser, a small package, wrapped in pale blue cloth and tied with white ribbon.

What can this be, except his birthday present? Francis sinks onto a bench and stares at the package for a long time before he picks it up and tugs at the ribbon, to reveal… a deck of cards. Painted with a kestrel perched on a tree branch. He sits there, clutching them tightly, until the afternoon light dims and the room around him goes dark.

* * *

He returns to London. It is late in the Season, and his sister and her family have decided to remain in the country until after her confinement, so he finds himself sitting in his townhouse with absolutely nothing to do. It is too early to go to Quex’s. Dominic and Absalom will be busy, and if he meets Richard in private, Richard is going to try to embrace him and say “dear Francis” in his low, warm voice and Francis will either burst into tears or deliver a scathing insult that Richard doesn’t deserve. He knocks about the house for a while and finally makes the decision to go to White’s.

At White’s, he must brush off a good deal of unwanted sympathy, of course. He never did develop a method of dealing with that, last time, but White’s has the advantage of being a gentleman’s club, free of the excessive compassion of ladies. Francis works his way through to the card table without too much trouble—and that is where he finds Julius Norreys.

Norreys has been quite welcome among the Ricardians since the death of his brother, as ghastly as that sounds, but Francis hasn’t seen much of him; Richard had whisked him away to the peace and quiet of Arrandene for several weeks, and their paths had crossed in the private rooms of Quex’s only a handful of times before Francis’s own abrupt departure. In the weeks since, the man has evidently been quite busy with his tailor, and Francis blinks at the sight of him.

His previous devotion to the school of Brummell would lend itself easily to mourning attire, but there is no hint of that now. His coat is red—too dark to be called Army-red, but still rather flashy. His pantaloons are grey, and his waistcoat is grey striped with pink and shot through with gold thread. His cravat is pure as snow. Before him, with his black coat, his black waistcoat, and his black cravat, Francis feels rather like a buzzard. Then he meets Norreys’s cool gaze, and he collects himself. There is mourning in his look, if not his looks.

“Afternoon, Norreys.”

“Do call me Julius, sir. We are intimates now, by Ricardian decree.” There is a hint of real solicitation in his voice, but mixed with enough irony that Francis is comfortable with it. Yes, this is much more bearable. Norreys has never been half so earnest as Richard.

“Indeed. Do you play piquet, Julius?”

“Good enough for White’s, but not Quex’s.”

“As we are at White’s, I think that will do. Care for a game?”

“I would be delighted.”

They take a seat in a corner table, help themselves to drinks, and cut the cards. Julius is quite a capable player—Richard is too cautious and Dom sometimes overreaches by thinking himself too clever. Julius is not a strategic mastermind, but he has a better memory for the cards than either of them, and they soon settle into a comfortable rhythm. After a few hands, Julius begins to update Francis on everything he has missed in London the last few weeks, most of which is must more amusing to hear narrated with his dry commentary than it would have been to live through. Francis is almost enjoying himself.

He should have expected what happened next.

“Oh, damnation,” a voice utters, just this side of too loud, and Francis feels his hackles rise. He glances up from his cards to find Maltravers standing at the entrance to the card room with a sneer on his face. “I was hoping for a few more weeks of peace and civilized company,” Maltravers says, ostensibly to his companion, some sniveling toad-eater who nevertheless looks uneasy at Maltravers’s needling of a man who has just become an orphan. “Really, I should like to know who made the decision to open membership to the spawn of—”

Three things happen. Later, Francis won’t be able to say if they happened in quick succession, and in what order, or simultaneously. They are as follows: Francis rises from his chair, fully intending to beat Maltravers bloody or die trying; Julius drops his cards and grips Francis’s forearm with a hand like a vice; and Gabriel Ashleigh launches himself at his brother.

The room has gone deadly silent. Every man present, no doubt, knows of the longstanding enmity between Francis and Maltravers. Maltravers is clearly about to deliver an insult that would justify a Challenge, law be damned—but one look at Francis’s face would show that he does not have an orderly, rule-abiding duel in mind. The audience is waiting with breathless anticipation. And in the midst of this silence, Gabriel twitters like an idiot.

“Mal, are you going ’round Grosvenor Square for tea? _Would_ you? I promised Mother I would, but Freddy is going to that Spaniard’s demonstration at Angelo’s and I shall have to miss it if I go—”

“And why should I give a damn?” Maltravers says, fraternal annoyance displacing malice almost immediately.

“Well, Mother’s rather gloomy because she’s had a letter from Raph; he’s gone off to Jamaica—or Antigua? Oh, what’s the difference—but the Spaniard is only going to be in Town until tomorrow—”

“Gabriel, sometimes your idiocy truly beggars belief.”

The elder brother rolls his eyes and abandons the games room in favor of a drink by the fire, the younger hovering over his shoulder and still whining about fencing. The rest of the club goes about its business, amused in the certain knowledge that Ashleigh, with not an ounce of either tact or awareness, has just saved his brother from a well-deserved facer.

Francis drops back into his chair, breathing heavy, and Julius releases him. Francis’s arm throbs and he realizes that there must be white marks, flushing to red, beneath his sleeve.

“Good Lord, Julius,” he says. “Not nearly as delicate as you look, are you?”

“I will take that as a compliment. And by the bye, if the man had continued in such insolence and you found yourself in need of a friend, I prefer swords to pistols but am fully competent with either.”

“I will make note of it.”

Francis picks up the deck and shuffles. His hands are shaking with adrenaline, and it takes several attempts before the cards interlace properly. Julius politely looks elsewhere.

“Speaking of friends. Is Lord Gabriel among yours?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is it a difficult question?” Julius asks, lifting one eyebrow.

“No. No, we are not friends. We are the barest of acquaintances, and our occasional encounters may be called polite at best.”

“I see. I was simply wondering if he is as much a fool as he seems.”

“I have no opinion on the matter,” Francis says stiffly, as he begins to deal.

* * *

Francis does not spend _all_ of his time thinking about Gabriel Ashleigh. Or even most of his time. He has an estate to run, and a business, and a house in London to maintain. He has a sister, a brother-in-law, two nephews, and a niece who make claims on his attention, not to mention the Ricardians. He pays attention to politics, earns a tiny additional income at cards each year, and keeps up a sodomitical habit that requires care to keep him from the gallows. All of this occupies his mind.

What is extraordinary about Gabriel, though, is that he is never gone for very long. Sometimes he himself forces his presence on Francis, usually across a card table. Sometimes his name is brought up casually in conversation by one of his dozens of admirers. And sometimes it takes nothing at all to bring him to Francis’s.

“You see, sir, we have had great difficulty with our current supplier with regards to consistency,” he says in a stern tone. The merchant in front of him is not bothered; his assistant looks as though a strong wind might blow him over. “I have no use for a dyer who cannot produce the same color from one day to the next.”

“I quite understand, Mr. Webster,” he says. “Yes—it is most shocking that you have been faced with such difficulty—but I assure you that you will have no complaint about Stockman’s Dyes. I am _very_ particular with all my staff, sir, and they know their business well. If I may, Mr. Webster, I have brought some samples—”

The assistant produces a bundle and spreads it across the table, the dye merchant chattering all the while about the composition of powders and tinctures, the particulars of various weaves, and the superiority of his blues to any other blues in England. 

Francis, despite his serious tone, is inclined to be indulgent; it is true that some of the swatches before him are of a superior variety than that being produced by his current supplier. Moreover, when Francis picks one up to examine it, he is almost sure it has been produced on a Webster loom. He wouldn’t wager on it — not much, at least—but he is a great deal more knowledgeable about his business than other, more self-conscious newly-landed sons of trade, and he knows the quality of his own stock.

As he walks around the table, he spots a particular color on the end, and freezes.

“Mr. Stockman,” he says abruptly, interrupting the monologue. “What do you call this shade?”

“Ah,” the dye merchant says, bustling over. “That is _madder blue_ , sir—a lovely pale blue-purple. Very popular for spencers and pelisses in particular, although the uses are endless.”

“Indeed,” Francis says, because he has to say something, because he cannot say _ah, so that is the color of Lord Gabriel Ashleigh’s eyes. The question has perplexed me for years now—thank you for your assistance._

“Perhaps there is a lady who might appreciate a few yards of such a colour?” Stockman suggests congenially. “Only say the word, Mr. Webster, and I would be happy to oblige.”

“The only lady to whom I might make such a present is my sister, Lady St. Clare, and as Christmas is still many months away, I rather think she would better appeal to her husband if she is in need of a new spencer. But you have impressed me, Mr. Stockman. These are all very well done. I do believe we will be able to come to an arrangement.”

He nods to his secretary, and Haverford leans forward to begin the negotiations. Francis sits down and observes, and tries not to think of the square of cotton in his pocket.

* * *

Late one evening, at Arrandene, Francis is playing piquet with Dominic. It is a lazy game, low stakes, accompanied by good wine, while they both pretend to ignore Dom’s bruised and swollen face.

It’s not just the face, of course—not just the split lip, what looks to be a broken nose, and a black eye—but vicious bruises on his wrists and arms, too, and he flinches sometimes when he moves in a way that suggests other, hidden discomforts. They had all been planning to decamp to the country this week regardless, but it is blatantly obvious why Richard whisked Dom out of London so abruptly, two days early. And, as far as Francis knows, not a word has been said of it since.

His conscience is gnawing at him, and in turn he keeps nibbling on the rough edge of his thumbnail. Dom would never condescend to accept advice from Absalom or Julius; the balance of his friendship with Absalom is rather precarious, and his respect for Julius’s mental acuity has declined with each day that passes since Waterloo. Normally, of course, he would accept Richard’s counsel, but Richard has been in a thundering mood all week, and Dom has been vacillating between guilt and perverse stubbornness. That leaves Francis. He and Dom have a good deal of respect for one another, and Dom knows that Francis does not enter into unnecessary entanglements. That might— _might_ —lend his words greater weight.

He does not find the courage until they are well into the second bottle of wine. Then, finally, Francis swirls his glass and says, “Dom, you do know that if you are ever in difficulty, you may consult me, don’t you?”

“I would hardly call a debt of thirteen shillings ‘in difficulty,’ Francis. Against you, I’d call that a damned good night.”

“That is not what I was referring to.”

The room is growing dim; there will be no scullery maid to tend the fire unless they call her, and they haven’t called her. The warm orange light and the room’s muted furnishings create a fearsome scene. Dom’s bruises look burgundy mottled with black, and even the unblemished skin has an unnatural sheen. His eyes, already dark and hard, are darker and harder.

“I don’t think _that_ is any of your concern,” he says frostily.

“Perhaps not, and yet—”

Dom shuffles the cards and deals them with a sharp snap.

“It’s nothing. I misjudged.”

“You—”

“I—” He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and sighs. “I went looking for someone who would be cruel, who would not stop even if I told him no. I found him. One can hardly blame the poor fellow for fulfilling a request.”

“I can think it very strange for a man in your position to call someone else ‘poor fellow,’” Francis says, raising an eyebrow. “But you know your business best, I suppose. Do you intend to visit this—fellow—again?”

“No, I damn well don’t. How many do you exchange?”

“Four.”

“I exchange three.”

They play in silence for the remainder of the hand. Francis settles back in his armchair, wary of Dominic’s waspy mood. He crosses his legs and fixes his eyes on the cards.

“There’s no need to bite off my head,” he says after a moment. “ _I’m_ perfectly happy to leave well enough alone. I’m not Richard”

“Oh, Richard,” Dom sighs. He rubs at his forehead, and some of the anger dissipates. He, too, sits back, looking depressingly weary. “He worries—he doesn’t understand.”

“That must be strange, for the two of you.”

“I suppose.” Dom stares into the low coals. “No, it’s not strange. He’s never understood this. When we were at school, or at the family seat… it was idyllic. It was as if there was nothing, no one else in the world except us. Boys are like that, you know, hardly caring for consequences. Then we grew up. I started to—to have fears and doubts, and Richard was still unafraid and steady and kind, and somehow that made everything worse. As though— as though he was ignoring the darkness rather than defying it. I don’t know when I started… I don’t know why, but— he’s disgusted, of course. And furious, and frightened out of his wits that I’m seeking to kill myself in the most roundabout way imaginable. Really I’m _not._ It’s a game, you know. As much a game as any other we lot play, and if I happen to play for higher stakes, then that is my wager to make and pay.”

“I understand,” Francis says after a moment’s pondering. He sees that Dom’s wine glass is empty and leans forward to refill it. “I daresay I have played a few games of which Richard would disapprove.”

“Yes, I thought you might have,” Dom snorts. Francis finds himself fighting a smile.

“And what does _that_ mean, my dear Dominic?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” He thinks for a moment. “Have you ever considered…?”

“Considered…?” Dom tilts his head with a knowing look. “Ah.”

“As a pure hypothetical, you understand.”

“Of course. As a pure hypothetical....” He shrugs. “But I learned early in life that such a confined society as ours produced difficulties. Richard and Julius, as an entity, reinforced that lesson.”

“Oh, Lord. Richard-and-Julius. What a mess that was.”

“Quite.” Francis thinks to himself for another moment, and feels heat searing the tips of his ears. He takes a gulp of wine. “It’s not my game,” he says, awkward and stilted. “I am too aware of my flaws to enjoy it, I think. As one of my dearest friends—would you hesitate for a moment to call me a domineering, possessive, callous sort of man?”

“I would phrase it more delicately.”

“Exactly. In business I indulge such inclinations, where they often prove to be an asset, and I cannot fully restrain it in society, when society occupies so much of my time. But I cannot acquiesce to it always, or I should lose the better part of myself. I can’t be quite so—so cruel. For God’s sake, I feel guilty if I am too abrupt with molly boys. With a lover—” He is rambling now, the hour and the wine giving his mind a strange philosophical turn. “One ought to be one’s best with a lover. Don’t you think? To try, at least, to be generous and attentive. Or at least I feel _I_ ought to be.”

Dominic is looking at him with a very queer expression, and Francis feels his faint blush deepen and spread. He takes a sip of wine. Oh—his glass is empty. How did that happen?

“Francis,” Dom says slowly. “Are you in love?”

“What? I—no, certainly not.”

“Would you like to be?”

“What sort of question is that?” he demands, and Dom shrugs.

“I would like to be in love, I think,” he says wistfully. “I know it is strange, to ask from a lover what I would ask. But... I have felt the danger more acutely, of late. It would be easier, I think, to have a lover.”

“Mm. I suppose we are all putting ourselves in danger all the time, aren’t we? You most of all, of course, but the rest of us, too.”

“Well, this has been very cheery.” A yawn overtakes him. “I am for bed, I think. Good night, Francis.”

Dom stands, wobbling only slightly, and then comes around the table to press an unexpected and rather sloppy kiss to Francis’s cheek. Francis watches him go with some amusement. Dom closes the door behind him, and Francis looks down at their abandoned game of piquet.

He gathers the cards slowly and shuffles them. Once. Twice. Three, four, five times. Methodically he lays out the pattern for Patience, the six descending lines, the six cards face-up. And then he just… stares at them. He is suddenly exceedingly tired, too tired either to play the hand or to get up and go to bed. What a miserable face the Jack of Hearts has. Somehow he never noticed before.

* * *

London must make its demands; they cannot squirrel themselves away at Arrandene forever. It is late spring, and Francis is beginning to think longingly of the mild, peaceful Lancashire summer. He will spend some weeks visiting his sister and his brother-in-law’s family; Percy has too many siblings, in his opinion, but he is looking forward to seeing his sister and her children, the youngest of whom is his goddaughter. Julius will visit for a time, to relieve him of the obligation of returning to his parents in Northamptonshire, and Francis’s breeder in Dublin will be shipping over a new setter to be trained before shooting begins in the fall.

These are the pleasures of country, but they are still several weeks away. Meanwhile, Francis indulges in the pleasures of Town.

The private rooms at Millay’s have hosted some very pleasant memories for him, but the public rooms are always unbearable. Inevitably there will be a man fair shaking to pieces with nerves, and another who can’t reliably discern the difference between a molly boy and a patron, who will either be deeply offended when a price is named or will deeply offend others in asking for one. The conversation is either insultingly abrupt or exasperatingly oblique. Francis, personally, feels ridiculous wearing the dominos and thinks they make all other men look ridiculous, which makes choosing an attractive partner somewhat difficult, and the Ricardians have to deal with the occasional awkwardness of recognizing their friends. Thank God Richard himself doesn’t frequent this place—that, truly, would be beyond the pale.

But Francis has been to Millay’s often enough to have established a routine. He does not lurk in the corners or leer at strangers like a boor. He sits in the same chair, tolerably comfortable and with a good view of the room. A serving maid brings him a glass of wine, which he enjoys at his leisure, and he gazes about the room until he sees someone who will do. Then he crosses the room, greets him, and extends a direct but understated offer.

Except tonight. Tonight, Francis has not even picked up his wine glass when he looks around absently and sees Gabriel.

It is impossible to mistake him. Those curls. His height, his breadth, his gait. Francis knows it all. He knows the grin on his face, even if it has an edge here—here, here at this _molly house_ —that he has never seen in a ballroom or at White’s. He is walking towards the steps with his arm through the elbow of a man, whom Francis hates. He has no idea who he is, except that he must be a guard or a soldier because no one else would wear boots so well-made and so ugly, but he would be hard-pressed to name a man he despises more.

For a moment—for the passage of a heartbeat—Francis is still, seized by shock and hatred and desire.

Then he is in motion. He does not stop to think. He crosses the room just before they reach the stairs and offers Gabriel a bow, correct to the point of absurdity in these less than polite surroundings.

“Good evening,” he says, and at the sound of his voice, Gabriel halts. His lips part and his eyes widen.

“We—” He cuts off the name just in time and glances at his companion, who is bewildered and preparing to be outraged. Clever fellow. He knows exactly what Francis is about. “I—a moment—”

He drops the man’s arm. Francis is strangely calm as he allows Gabriel to take him by the elbow and draw him aside.

“What are you _doing_ here?”

“Is that a question that needs to be asked, _my lord_?” Francis says in a low tone laced with amusement. “I will not ask you the same. I have won a wager, you know. Well, half a wager at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“I bet myself that you frequented establishments such as this.” He rests his hand against the small of Gabriel’s back, and Gabriel sways closer. “And that you had… discerning tastes, not so easily satisfied.”

They are so close that his breath stirs Gabriel’s curls.

“Am I wrong?” he asks in a low murmur, and a pink blush blooms beneath the black silk of that useless mask.

“Oh, damn you.”

He lets Gabriel mount the first few steps to apologetically dismiss the guard, who looks extremely put out. Francis feels a twinge of empathy, tempered by scorn. _Four and a half years, sir. My claim is much greater than yours._ Then he follows Gabriel up the stairs.

A kinder man would have waited even longer. Brought a bottle of wine up to the room, explained himself, taken the time to reassure Gabriel that, regardless of the night’s outcome, he has no intention of causing him harm. But Francis has been patient for so very, very long, and he does not wait for the door to fully shut before he pushes Gabriel against it and kisses him. Gabriel is not only willing, but eager. His hands paw at Francis’s chest and come to rest at the small of his back, holding him close. When he turns his head to draw in a ragged breath, Francis tugs at his cravat until he can scrape his teeth against the soft skin of his throat.

“Oh, God,” Gabriel whimpers. “Francis— Francis, please—”

Francis’s domino has become dislodged. He rips it off impatiently, and then Gabriel’s, then takes a moment to simply—look at him. Always he has been so careful. Not now. He meets those madder-blue eyes and allows his gaze to travel down, lingering on the blush of his throat, the trim waist, the cockstand pressing against his breeches. He lets Gabriel see his hunger. His lips part for a moment in breathless anticipation. Francis cups his chin and captures those lips with his own.

“By God, you may be the loveliest thing I have ever seen,” he says sincerely, and the flush on Gabriel’s cheeks deepens. “And I am going to give you the fucking you’ve been begging for these last four years. On the bed, my dear.”

“Better late than never, I suppose,” Gabriel teases, with his nose in the air as though that will distract from the speed with which he sheds his loose-cut coat and his shirt as he strides towards the bed.

In moments he is naked and reclining, an impish look on his face, and Francis loses what little composure he may have had. He lavishes attention down Gabriel’s torso, nibbling at his neck again, laving at his nipples, dropping wet kisses on his inner thigh. Gabriel gasps and squirms. Francis uses one hand to pin his wrist to his bed, and splays his fingers over his hip to keep him still.

“Francis…”

He meets Gabriel’s gaze for only a moment as he sucks the head of his prick, and then Gabriel flings his head back with a groan. The muscles of his thighs strain.

“Stop—stop, I’m going to spend. Fuck me first, Francis, please.”

“Shameless,” Francis tuts as he straightens, but he strips off his coat and unbuttons his breeches with alacrity. There is oil—there always is, at Millay’s, practically spilling out of every drawer and crevice—and at the sight, Gabriel scrambles onto his knees, lowering himself onto his forearms. The presentation is enough to take Francis’s breath away. One finger trails between Gabriel’s buttocks and he drapes himself over his back, kissing his bare shoulder. “Wanton slut,” he says in a soft growl, and Gabriel turns his head to pout.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, darling,” he chides. “Haven’t you wanted me every bit as badly as I’ve wanted you?”

“More,” Francis admits. He teases that plump lower lip between his teeth, and Gabriel pushes back against his hand with a hitched breath and a pleased sigh.

“Well, now you have me,” he says with a beguiling smile. “So… take me.”

Francis does.

* * *

Francis doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t. Near thirty years of patience, of care, of restraint, have made their mark on him. He freezes at the sight of Gabriel mounting that first step, and he cannot even tear his eyes away until long after he is gone. His grip on the arm of his chair tightens until his knuckles are white and aching. A molly boy approaches him with a coy smile and Francis dismisses him with more anger than he deserves. He is in a thoroughly blistering mood. He will not leave satisfied by anyone who is not Gabriel Ashleigh, but the prospect of kissing Gabriel Ashleigh with another man’s taste still on his tongue—or worse, being _rejected_ by him—is absolutely intolerable. Francis leaves. He stalks home and dismisses his valet with a sharp word, and spends several frustrating minutes contemplating what he ought to have done instead.

The fantasy has changed, he is forced to admit, when he is staring sightlessly at the ceiling, dappled with his own spend, anger burnt out and leaving something horrible and hollow in his chest. How long has the young man been _Gabriel_ in his mind? He hadn’t noticed. When did imagined insolence become playfulness—when did claiming his satisfaction become tending to another’s pleasure? Yes. Something has certainly changed.

 _Are you in love?_ Dominic asked, and he had said no, because only a sentimental fool could be in love with a man he hardly knows based on—what? A pretty pair of eyes, a few near-silent card games, and some public eavesdropping? Ridiculous.

And yet… 

* * *

The next morning, he goes around to Julius’s rooms. It is an obscene hour of the morning for visiting, and the valet’s eyes very nearly widen when Francis hands over his card. He is a steady fellow, though, and his face betrays no hint of surprise when he returns to say that yes, Mr. Norreys is at home, and ushers Francis into the breakfast room. Julius, on the other hand, gives him a look that clearly says _what the devil has gotten into you, man?_

“Good morning,” Francis says briskly. “Do you keep up the habit of early rides when you are in Town?”

“I do.”

“I’ll join you, if you don’t object.”

“Not at all,” Julius says in a bland, effortless voice, and that is almost that is said between them until they are trotting through Hyde Park.

It is empty at this time of the morning, and the fog is thick. Julius’s mare is a masterpiece of a horse; he is even more particular about horseflesh than waistcoats. Francis does not feel as graceful on his own Chione this morning, but he cannot be sure if that is the horse’s fault, his own, or Gabriel Ashleigh’s.

They have completed nearly a full circuit of the park before Francis finally opens his mouth and says, “I saw someone at Millay’s last night.”

The calmness of his own voice is a surprise to him. Julius looks puzzled.

“I am more perplexed than ever at the pleasure of your company. Very good, dear chap, quite thrilled for you, and shouldn’t you still be abed?”

“Not like that,” Francis snaps. “I mean I _recognized_ someone at Millay’s last night.”

Julius’s head snaps towards him. The bay mare tosses her head a little, but her rolling gait does not falter.

“No, you did not,” Julius says coldly. “One does not recognize anyone at Millay’s.”

“I saw Lord Gabriel Ashleigh there last night.”

“That is the absolute last person _you_ ought to be recognizing.”

“For God’s sake, Julius,” Francis says impatiently. “I’m not going to go down to Grub Street with it. I’m not even going to tell Dominic or Richard or any of the others. I’m only telling _you,_ because— because I need your advice, damn it.”

Julius sighs and presses his lips together for a moment, staring straight ahead through the fog. His foot twitches like he would badly like to dig it into the mare’s side and gallop far away from Francis and his strange entanglement with the family Ashleigh, but he does not give in to temptation.

“Fine,” he says grudgingly. “My advice on what? What ill-advised thought is bouncing around in your head?”

Francis is still trying to put the words in the right order when suddenly Julius yanks the reins and pulls his horse into an abrupt stop, right in Francis’s path. Chione shies and Francis curses as he tries to steady her.

“ _Absolutely not_.”

“I haven’t even explained—”

“I don’t need to hear an explanation! All possible arguments in favor are obvious, and I will cede to you that he’s an exceptionally handsome devil and there could be no greater method by which you could give Maltravers apoplexy. Must I now lay out the arguments in opposition, or has the brisk morning air revived your sanity?”

“I don’t see how it is more objectionable than approaching anybody else. Less, even, because I saw him go up with someone. He wouldn’t risk—”

“There is _no_ risk to him—the risk is entirely on your side. He accuses you of making sodomitical advances, and your only defense is that you saw him at a house of sodomy you happen to frequent? His father is a _duke_. Good Lord, never mind the duke, all he has to do is have a quick coze with his brother and Maltravers will happily go for your throat.”

“Maltravers despises him,” Francis says hotly. “Because _he_ is an arrogant, ill-tempered brute, and Gabriel is—”

“Gabriel?” Julius repeats.

Francis averts his gaze.

“Damnation,” Julius mutters. He takes his horse in hand and they resume their circle around the park, albeit at a much quicker pace. “This is my reward for never giving advice, isn’t it?” Julius asks after a few minutes. “You have gotten yourself all tangled up in a veritable Gordian knot you _know_ you cannot unsnarl, and would be very happy for an unscrupulous friend to play Alexander. Richard, naturally, would berate you soundly. Dominic is aware that his own ill-advised adventures cause Richard a good deal of grief and would not advise anyone to follow a similar path. Absalom would never approve of such a risky _affaire_ , let alone betwixt a pretty blond and a man who isn’t himself. And so you think your best wager is the empty-headed, amoral fop.”

Despite himself, Francis has to stifle a smirk.

“I could have asked Peter.”

“Peter is an idiot.”

“I suppose.” They ride for another minute in silence. “He is a very decent type of man, you know,” Francis says, facing straight ahead to avoid Julius’s shrewd observation, but unable to remain completely silent.

“Peter?”

“Don’t be a dolt. Lord Gabriel. I know he has a reputation as a rattle, and one would hardly call him the scholarly type. But he is—kind. He dances with overlooked younger daughters and listens to stories from Grand Tours and laughs at awkward jokes. The greatest flaw he possesses is occasional thoughtlessness and terrible relatives, and one can hardly blame him for the latter. After all, would _you_ have chosen Maltravers for a brother, if you could help it?”

“No, I would not, and so help me God, Francis, if you ever again evoke the barest _whisper_ of Marcus’s memory in connection with that ogre, I shall call you out.”

Francis lifts a hand to indicate that was not his intention, but the edge of malice in Julius’s voice is tempered with enough cynical amusement that he knows he is not in danger.

“Do you know what Dominic says? He was at the Warminster house for dinner once when a colleague asked if Gabriel, Lord Gabriel, had settled on a career, and the duke replied that he was going into the Army. Dom says he looked absolutely terrified—he thinks the father hadn’t bothered to _inform_ him before making the announcement, let alone consult him. Can you think of anything more horrid?”

“Yes, several. My dear Francis, he is a third son. Third sons must do _something,_ and what, pray tell, is wrong with the Army? If your observation is true, he hardly seems suited for Law or the Church.”

“You know what I mean,” Francis says impatiently. “Warminster is rich as Croesus. He could have provided for a third son, and probably a fourth, if he had wished. At the very least, shunting the boy into the Army unawares while Napoleon was stomping around the Continent was a callous way to go about it. It was only pure luck that Gabriel had a wealthy, childless relative thoughtful enough to die at the proper time.”

“And so you—rich as Croesus’s wealthy childless relative—hope to swoop in and free the golden-haired beauty from the dragon? I never would have accused you of being a romantic.”

“I am not,” Francis says coldly. “As you noted, the arguments in favor are not difficult to discern. I simply wish to defend myself from accusations of recklessness. I had considered the arguments against, also, and I am confident that Lord Gabriel would not expose himself to the ridicule of his family, however slight the risk, by running to their aid at the first intimation.”

“Confident enough for the pillory?”

Francis’s answering silence is enough. Julius casts him a glance full of pity, and then snaps his reins, and they circle the park in a daring canter as the morning fog begins to burn.

* * *

Ruin, when it comes, comes to Quex’s.

Ever since their non-encounter at Millay’s, it aggravates Francis to see Gabriel at Quex’s. He is more available yet more untouchable than ever, and he insists on invading Francis’s particular spaces—for what? Francis is willing to concede that Millay’s provides an important service, and there are few places to rival it in Town. But Quex’s, to the general public, is a gaming hell, and Gabriel is not a gamester. He could understand visiting Quex’s on rare occasions, to enjoy its fashionable reputation and to flaunt the lifting of his ban, but to return time and time again, to play at the small number of low-stakes tables, to spend twice as much time talking away as attending the game—why?

Francis is contemplating this question with increasing irritation when a particularly loud peal of laughter catches his attention. A lovely laugh. Like clamouring bells. He looks up with a glare just in time to see Gabriel turn and meet his gaze. The force of Francis’s desire steels his breath.

He has only a brief moment to worry what his face might show before Gabriel stalks over to the table.

“Webster,” he says briskly. “How about a game?”

Francis thinks of the turtle doves calling to each other in the woods. _Halloo, look at me! Halloo, look at me!_

This is not the first time Gabriel has forced himself into Francis’s presence. Far from it. Over the last five years, they have met at the tables two dozen times or more, never exchanged a word more heated than “you have won the hand, sir”—and yet, all this time, there has been something building. Francis knows it. He can feel it. Damn Richard’s moral qualms, damn Julius’s detachment, damn Dom’s self-reproaches. He knows this, and he sees it in the fae gleam of Gabriel’s impossible eyes.

“I am happy to oblige, my lord,” Francis replies in the blandest voice he can manage. “Rivers, you don’t mind?”

“By all means,” Rivers says, standing. He is a satirical fellow—he and Julius get on—and he seems more amused than offended at the abrupt dismissal. “Best of luck, Ash.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gabriel drops into the abandoned chair. There was an empty glass in his hand; he sets it down and looks around for a servant, and the glass is promptly filled. “Piquet, is it?”

“That is my preferred game, yes.”

“Very good.”

“Do you care to deal?” Francis offers, needling him. The dealer is at a disadvantage in piquet, and they will trade the honor throughout the game. Far safer for a weak player to deal at the beginning than at the end. But Gabriel declines.

And he loses, loses, loses. Occasionally Francis is dealt a hand so miserable that even he can do nothing about it, but that does not happen very often. He wins in five hands. Normally this is the point at which Francis would excuse himself. Tonight he looks across the table and says “Another game?”

“Absolutely.”

Once again, Francis deals. He arranges the eight cards of the talon with the same precision as the Patience towers, with the ease of long practice, and considers his cards. It is a decent hand, but nothing spectacular. He will have the better advantage if he can discard the maximum number—he can chase the greater reward of sequences. Of course, he can only do so if Gabriel _doesn’t,_ but Gabriel won’t, because he never does. He has no head for the mathematics of the game. He plays according to instinct and luck, as carelessly as he might play lotto, and it takes an extraordinary amount of luck to overcome his strategic blunders. On this particular hand, he discards only two cards, allowing Francis to scoop up the majority of the talon.

He also takes the time to arrange his cards in his hand, both before and after the discard. A waste of time, and foolish besides. If Francis were a true sharp, out to skin him for everything he had, that act of arrangement, combined with the information gleaned in the declaration, would easily allow him to do so. He has to bite back the instinct to reprimand him.

“Your bid, my lord?” he asks. Gabriel sucks in his lower lip just briefly, and Francis’s throat goes dry.

“A hundred pounds.”

Despite himself, Francis is surprised, and he allows his surprise to show on his face, raising his eyebrows quizzically. Gabriel’s friend Freddy Perkins, having been abandoned at one table, has taken a seat nearby this one, and he looks at Gabriel with similar surprise but not very much alarm. His hand must be decent, then—although Perkins is also an idiot, so his judgment can’t count for much. Seventeen of thirty-two cards have passed through Francis’s hands at this point, and it would take a prodigious amount of skill to best him with only twelve of those that remain. Victory is not so assured as to be worth ten times the amount they have wagered on any hand so far.

“A hundred pounds,” he agrees casually.

It is not an alarming amount of money, for a hell like Quex’s. Not very much at all, compared to Francis’s vast wealth, and given his cards, he hardly thinks it a risk.

Gabriel’s hand is not too bad, but it is nothing extraordinary, either. Francis wins.

He loses the next hand, but wins the one that follows, and then the game, and then the game after that. Gabriel continues to bet high and double his bets with very little provocation, and Francis meets him shilling for shilling. Any other evening, Francis would have long since excused himself, but he feels no compulsion to do so tonight. He hesitates only once, when Gabriel declares that he wants to wager the sum total he has lost so far.

Francis makes a show of counting the notes and sorting through the scribbled promises.

“It comes to a total of nine thousand,” he says, hearing the murmurs of the watching crowd. That is a little high, even for Quex’s. “Dear me, Lord Gabriel. I did not know you were such a gamester. Are you sure you do not wish to end the evening?”

He is goading him. Of course he is. Francis is not a saint—maybe Maltravers is right, and he is not even a gentleman. He looks across the table with a challenge in his eyes.

_Admit that you are beaten, Gabriel. Admit that you are beaten, or admit that you want me, and let this end._

“Thank you, Webster.” Gabriel throws back the remains of his brandy. “But myself, I am still enjoying the game.”

They continue into the trick-taking phase—and _that_ is when Francis hesitates. If he leads with a spade, he will win a pique. If he wins a pique, Gabriel will not be able to win the hand, and Francis will walk away with eighteen thousand pounds of the Ashleigh fortune. Eighteen thousand pounds is not an insignificant sum. Francis wonders, with a hint of unease, just _how_ wealthy the convenient wealthy, childless relative had been.

“Your play, Webster,” Gabriel says.

Francis leads a spade.

The trick-taking portion of the game is fast, simple, and silent. Gabriel presses his lips tightly for a moment, and without a word scribbles out another promise to pay. Perkins claps him on the shoulder in a manly, commiserating sort of way, and a servant steps forward to refill his glass and Francis’s.

As he steps closer, the firelight falls on his face and Francis is startled to recognize Cyprian, Richard’s valet—dressed in a modest dark suit rather than livery, with his hair unpowdered.

“With Lord Richard’s compliments, Mr. Webster,” he says in a polite undertone as he pours the brandy. “And he has expressed his wish that you join him in the private rooms when you have finished your game—he has just arrived.”

Francis narrows his eyes

“Tell me, Cyprian,” he says coldly. “Does Richard truly expect me to come trotting after his valet like a child following its governess to Papà’s study?”

“I believe he thought it would be more discreet for me to pass on the invitation, rather than intrude upon your game himself,” Cyprian says, delicate as ever.

“Then I would suggest you very discreetly go and tell him— well, I presume there are some messages you would not like to pass on verbatim to your master, but please inform him, in the strongest terms your conscience will allow, that I will be happy to join him when I am finished here, and not a moment before.”

“Very good, sir.”

“My apologies,” Francis says briskly as the valet melts back into the crowd. Their quiet conversation has stretched on too long; under normal circumstances, he would certainly have been called to order, but Perkins is taking advantage of the time to hiss urgently in Gabriel’s ear. He takes a gulp of brandy. “Your deal, I think, Lord Gabriel.”

“Yes.”

The next hand is less dramatic. It is Francis’s turn to initiate the bidding, and he is conservative—relatively. One thousand pounds is no small amount, but it is not nine thousand. Gabriel loses again, and the game is over. Francis sits back in his chair and stretches a crick from his neck. He takes his watch from his pocket and makes a show of looking at the time—good Lord, it _is_ late. If Gabriel wants an excuse, this would be an easy one.

But when he looks at the table again, he sees that Gabriel is calmly, methodically sweeping the cards into a neat stack. He looks up at Francis, his eyes flashing and colorless in the uneven light, and places the deck on the table before him with a definite _snap._ And then he looks away, runs a hand through his hair with casual elegance, and lifts the glass of brandy to his lips.

_Halloo, look at me! Halloo, look at me!_

Francis shuffles and deals. The bidding begins cautiously, but does not remain so. Gabriel wins the first hand, as a matter of fact, and the elation of it leads him to overbid the second. By the fifth, he is in the doldrums again. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a quick little flash of pink.

“What would you stake against Chamford House?”

“Chamford House?”

“My London property. On Berkeley Street.”

Perkins is whispering again, and tugging at his elbow. The better part of Francis is warning him that there is no coming back from this. He shrugs.

“Let us say ten thousand?”

Gabriel flushes.

“It’s worth at least fourteen.”

“I do beg your pardon. The details of Ashleigh property have never been of any interest to me. Fourteen, then.”

Francis picks five cards to discard out of pure habit—and then he stops. He looks at the talon, and then at Gabriel’s hand. The younger man is at a disadvantage. This may very well be the last hand of the game, a hand on which he’s staked what is probably the only property he possesses, and he is the dealer, because his damnable pride has led him to insist that Francis begin each game. Only one of them will be able to claim the advantage of five new cards, and Francis chooses first. Then again, Francis thinks, Gabriel never _does_ take five. Their gazes lock. Without looking at them, Francis sets aside three cards and takes three from the talon.

_Take all five, you idiot._

Gabriel takes two. A sigh passes Francis’s lips.

“Point of three.”

“Not good,” Gabriel says, with a hint of satisfaction in his voice despite the fact that no one on earth has ever won a hand of piquet based on points. Francis is starting to wonder if no one ever took the time to actually _teach_ the man cards before letting him loose in a town full of people all too happy to winkle a duke’s son of his fortune. It is a fair guess—no one ever thought to teach Maltravers manners before foisting him on a ballroom.

“Sixième.”

“Good.”

“Three of queens.”

“Not good.”

They move into the trick-taking portion of play. The table is absolutely silent. So is most of the room. Some men are still playing at the other tables, but many have stopped in favor of crowding theirs. The monetary value of their wagers has reached thirty thousand pounds, which is near the largest amount ever wagered at Quex’s, to Francis’s knowledge, and the stake against Chamford House likely puts it over. That alone would make it an exciting hand, but the fact that the gamblers are Francis Webster and Gabriel Ashleigh increases the excitement threefold. Francis, who is widely known to be one of the best card players ever to step foot in these rooms, yet who has never played _quite_ such high stakes before. (Good God, he thinks with a lurch in his stomach, his grandfather never saw thirty thousand pounds all the years of his life combined.) Gabriel Ashleigh, who has never played half so well nor half so deeply, who is an entirely unremarkable person except, possibly, as the younger brother of a man who has so consistently been turned away from the door.

The size of the crowd is such that there are audible gasps when Francis tosses down the last card and wins the last trick. He doesn’t know why; it’s not a surprise. Gabriel doesn’t look surprised. He stares at the card for several long moments, as if struggling to discern the number or the suit, and then he nods and pulls a sheet of paper towards himself. He scrawls out a note—his handwriting is terrible, and Francis trusts rather than reads that it transfers ownership of Chamford House. Gabriel looks very calm as he writes the note, and then rather sick as he shoves it across the table.

“Your game, Webster,” he says. His voice wavers. “Well-played. Do excuse me, I believe I’ve had enough. Freddy,” he says, louder, with an edge of hysteria, as he turns towards his friend. “Let’s have a bottle of gin.”

Freddy agrees wholeheartedly, and they are gone in a flash. No one takes the empty seat; Francis has plenty of congenial acquaintances at Quex’s to play against, but the pile of bills and notes beside him is discouraging. He takes the time to sort and neaten it, absently accepting the congratulations passersby and quelling any attempts at further conversation. Quex appears at the table with a bow.

“If you prefer, Mr. Webster, we will be happy to keep your winnings in the club safe overnight, and you may send for them in the morning.”

“Yes, thank you, Quex.”

“Excellent. I shall write you a receipt.”

“Quex—does Lord Richard’s valet very often come around the club?”

The proprietor hesitates, choosing his words carefully.

“Lord Richard prefers to be kept abreast of any… unusual or noteworthy events that take place at this establishment, especially any that might concern the welfare or reputations of his particular friends. I will often send messages to Cyprian, but he has his own instructions regarding what requires intervention or Lord Richard’s notice.”

“I see,” Francis says in a frosty voice. “And as Richard is your patron, he is not easily refused, is he?”

“As you say, sir.”

“Is he still here?”

“I believe Lord Richard is above, yes.”

* * *

“Do not send your valet to reprimand me again,” Francis growls furiously the moment he enters the private rooms. Richard is pacing by the fire, and he looks up with a dark expression. “Or expect me to come dashing up when you summon me—”

“That is _hardly_ the issue,” Richard replies, equally furious, with a much more booming voice. “What have you _done_ , Francis? What the devil were you thinking?”

“What has he done?” Absalom asks in a milder tone of voice. He is sitting in the most comfortable armchair, and his shrewd eyes flick from one to the other.

“I played cards! He is a grown man and he knew damn well what he was up against!”

Francis crosses the room, telling himself it has nothing to do with wanting to turn his face from Richard’s anger. He storms up to the drinks table and pours himself a glass. His hand shakes. The whiskey spills. He stares down at the splattering and is reminded of another night, and he throws back most of the glass in one gulp. Richard is bellowing, now.

“And that gives you the right to rob him blind? That absolves you of the obligation to act with a shred of decency? I need hardly mention the scrutiny and animosity you have invited on this club, on all of us—”

“Richard,” Dom interrupts, calm and firm. “Stop shouting, or you’ll bring scrutiny on us yourself. What’s happened?” He, too, looks between them. He and Julius had been seated when Francis entered but they are both standing now, hovering warily by the mantel. “What’s Francis done?”

“Oh, nothing too unusual,” Richard says with cold sarcasm. “He’s had a rather spectacular night at the tables. He’s only won thirty thousand pounds and _Chamford House_.”

“Chamford House,” Julius repeats, faintly. “That’s not—?”

“Gabriel Ashleigh’s _house_ ,” Richard confirms. “This is beyond the pale, Francis! Maltravers won’t sit at a card table with you, so instead you rob his _younger brother_ of his only property and every penny he has, if I’m not very much— what is it, Julius?”

Francis looks over his shoulder in time to see Juliu’s intent stare shift away from him, as he tries to school his features in that carefully-crafted expression of elegant boredom he wears so well. It is an affect, it always is, but that is never more obvious than this moment, when every other face in the room displays such shock, anger, and bafflement.

“Only surprise,” Julius tries to say. “Forgive me for not being as outraged as you, Richard, but I promise I disapprove. This is not at all typical of Francis.”

“No,” he presses. “There was something else. What is it?”

Francis casts a glance at Julius that must certainly be described as pleading. He can already feel embarrassment rising in his throat, hot and prickling against his skin. Anger is still predominant, but he has the horrible suspicion that he will not be able to sustain his anger if Richard knows… that.

“Oh, dear God.” It is not Richard, but Dominic who looks from Julius to Francis, his eyes widening. “I knew it. I knew there must be _something_ , but— damnation, Francis.”

“Ah,” Absalom says, knowing and empathetic, which Francis resents because _he_ is not the one who has gone hopeless over every blond youth who has ever expressed a halfway Whiggish opinion in public.

Even Richard, kept deliberately in the dark, consumed by his moral outrage, has the capacity to figure it out now. His lips part and for a moment it looks as though he is going to protest, as though this can’t possibly be true. And then the red of his cheeks darkens to a dangerous puce.

“Francis,” he says through gritted teeth. “Have you been—involved—with Gabriel Ashleigh?”

“No. I—no.”

He wants to bluster his way through, but he can’t manage it. He can’t even meet Richard’s gaze.

“Did he reject you? Is _that_ what this is about?”

“No! Good God, Richard, what kind of villain do you take me for?”

“I take you for a man who has, inexplicably, robbed another of every asset he had to his name! After a decade of friendship I am utterly, _utterly_ shocked to know that you are capable of such a thing. What else am I supposed to think, Francis? Before tonight, I would have attributed you more mercy, more scruples, but now— _now_ —how do you expect credit for your actions? By all means, do explain!”

He is itching to reach for the bottle of whiskey again, but when he sets the glass down, it lands on the edge, rolls, clatters on the ground. Francis stumbles into the nearest chair and drops his head in his hands.

“I have no explanation,” he addresses the rich carpet. “I didn’t intend for any of this. I—I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Then why _did_ you?” Dom asks.

Why did he? He stares at the pattern of the carpet and finds no answers in it, and lifts his head enough to gaze at the coals of the fire until spots blink in front of his eyes. His anger is gone now, drained out of him like those last drops of whiskey spilled out of the glass and into the threads of the carpet. Now he feels only shame.

“He kept betting,” he mumbles, unthinking. “Kept playing.”

“So did you.”

“I don’t mean tonight.”

He looks up, looking from each of his friends to the other, suddenly sick with the knowledge that this act may have consequences well beyond Gabriel Ashleigh. There have been other Ricardians throughout the years, men who have come and gone based on Richard’s strict code. Some of them have been dropped with no regret—like Sir Wallace, who had threatened a molly boy with the law if he would not fulfill certain peculiar requests. They had all been pleased to see him go. Julius had come up with half a dozen poisonous insults that had kept them amused for weeks afterwards. But some have committed much less serious offenses, like Francis’s friend Lawrence from Oxford, who found himself obliged to marry well and was summarily dismissed. Poor Lawrence. Francis had been the one to introduce him to their circle, and to this day he feels guilty over it.

He has no doubt that his own lapse of judgement is far more serious. If he cannot explain—if he cannot make Richard understand—then he will be ejected from the society of the dearest friends he has ever known. He is a misanthrope, a miser, a cold fish. If he loses the friendship of these men, he will not find their like again, of that he is certain. The prospect makes his voice tremble.

“Again and again, he has come up to my table and insisted on playing. He doesn’t play stakes like that against anyone else. And he’s wretched at cards. Utterly wretched. He’s never once ended the night with a shilling of mine in his pocket. I can’t…” He bites his thumbnail and tries to muster up the courage to admit this. God, he feels like a complete cad. “I’ve thought on why. He clearly has no interest in my _friendship,_ but Maltravers’s contempt for Gabriel is hardly less than his contempt for me, and I can’t believe he is seeking my enmity out of brotherly affection.”

He sits back in his chair with a heavy sigh and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’ve been indulging my own vanity, I suppose. But I swear to Heaven, Richard, I had no intention of playing this deep. I thought it was a front I was clever enough to see through. I thought he was courting my attention, albeit in a roundabout way, and I expected it to end before there were any real consequences. And—I was wrong.”

The words linger in the air like a dense, gloomy fog. Richard drops himself into a chair with as much impatience as he ever does. It groans under his weight, and he drums his fingers against the arm.

“You have to give it back,” he says finally. “Whether Maltravers _likes_ his brother or not, it hardly matters—he will despise you even more for this, and we don’t need the scrutiny. Nor would I desire for Quex’s, or you yourself, to earn the reputation for permitting such behavior. And it was wrong.”

“I can’t keep it, certainly, but I can’t _give_ it back.”

“You must.”

“He’s right, Richard,” Absalom interjects. “Unequal match or no, it was a gentleman’s wager, and Lord Gabriel is a gentleman. He won’t accept it as a gift from—your pardon, Francis—a man he doesn’t particularly know or like. He will assume it comes with conditions.”

“He could win it back, I suppose,” Dom says skeptically. “Assuming you could convince him to sit at the table with you again.”

“So either Lord Gabriel becomes a connoisseur of piquet within the week, or Francis throws every hand and pretends he has forgotten the value of the cards,” Julius says dryly. “Capital.”

“Cyprian.” Richard looks over his shoulder, and his valet appears out of the darkness. Francis hadn’t known he was there. “What are our options?”

“Lord Gabriel prefers card games that rely on luck more than skill, but he plays écarté and loo tolerably well. At White’s, the majority of his wagers concern prizefights, and he boxes himself at Cribb’s several times a month, where he is considered quite good. He will occasionally place wagers on races and fencing matches as well, but does not participate with any regularity.”

“How the devil do you know that?” Francis demands.

“I find it prudent, Mr. Webster, to keep myself appraised of the habits of certain gentlemen who may one day cause difficulty for Lord Richard and his friends,” Cyprian says placidly. “Truthfully, Lord Maltravers has occupied more of my attention, but given, ah, certain circumstances, I have familiarized myself with Lord Gabriel’s situation as well.”

That is a sort of explanation, albeit one that explains almost nothing. Francis turns his attention on Richard.

“I suppose I can manage to lose a few hands of écarté. I won’t cheat, but I can place a few outrageously steep wagers and fail to press advantage. That seems a better option than races or matches that rely on the performance of a third party.”

“Yes, I think that’s for the best. Make it private, and tomorrow, Francis. I don’t want this spreading through the entire _ton_ until it’s been handled. Today,” he corrects himself with a wince, glancing at the mantlepiece clock. He stands.

“And if Ashleigh loses at écarté, as well?” Julius asks. “What then? You don’t box at all, Francis, do you? I suppose that would make it very easy to lose to him.”

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Richard says wearily. “Good night, gentlemen.”

* * *

From the beginning, everything goes wrong. Francis prepares as best he can. He dismisses the servants early, to minimize the possibility for gossip. He takes out his kestrel cards, supposing that they will stimulate his conscience throughout the evening. He builds up the walls around himself so that Gabriel will find a cold, unfeeling, rational fellow, the type who can have no _personal_ motivation to either snatch away or return a fortune. Who would never, ever cheat at cards. He thinks he is prepared.

And then Gabriel arrives. Sober, calm. Perfectly cognizant of the difficulty of his situation, fully intending to pay, categorically denying the possibility of asking his rich, titled father for assistance. He even, to Francis’s genuine astonishment, apologizes for that night at Quex’s. That is how he refers to it, “that night at Quex’s,” with a casualness that suggests he thinks of it as often as Francis does.

In short, the very day that Francis is meant to be reconciling himself to the fact that he has been entirely wrong about Gabriel Ashleigh, that he barely knows him, that there can be no possibility of any further relationship between them—that very day, Gabriel comes into his home and proves all good opinions correct.

It takes a tremendous force of will to feign indifference. To sit down at the card table and play écarté. He loses, at first. He always exchanges one less card than he ought to. He discards the safe play for the unlikely reward. Twice, he makes a shrewd guess as to Gabriel’s hand and refuses him an exchange he ought not to make. And yet… there is an uneasiness in the air. Francis can’t put his finger on it. Gabriel seems restless. He shifts in his chair and bites his cheek and looks up at Francis with quick, searching glances. His wins unsettle him as much as his losses, if not more—and soon the latter begin to outnumber the former.

And Francis begins to wonder.

He is the world’s greatest fool for it, but it cannot be helped. If he was right about Gabriel’s principles, about his relationship to his father, about the significance of _that night_ to both of them… what else was he right about?

The night has stretched on. If Francis wins this hand, Gabriel will has lost everything he managed to win back earlier in the evening—and Francis thinks there is a very good chance he will win this hand. He considers the possibility, brushing his finger back and forth across his lips as he thinks. He watches Gabriel watching him.

He wins the hand. And then he makes the first in a series of very risky wagers.

“A hundred pounds against your coat.”

* * *

Afterwards, Francis lies on the couch with Gabriel stretched out on top of him, clingy and content and gloriously naked. They speak and fall silent in turn, and Francis would very much like to sleep, except that a nap in the drawing room is out of the question and an invitation to his bedroom still seems—improbable or impossible. He was meant to swear off such fantasies, after all.

As he ponders this, Gabriel stretches down and picks up one of the long-abandoned cards strewn on the carpet. He turns it over, admiring the painted back.

“Those are marvelous cards, by the way,” he says, lounging with his head on Francis’s shoulder. “I couldn’t appreciate it properly before.”

“Thank you,” Francis says, kissing the top of his head. “They were a gift from my mother.”

“What are the birds—merlins? My mother is a great consumer of literature, and she used to tell us stories about King Arthur and Merlin and all that. When I was six, Mal told me that all merlins were really wizards in disguise, and that they turn back into wizards in the winter, which is why there are no birds about. Really, you see, he just wanted me to go tramping through the woods looking for magical men all winter instead of getting underfoot.”

“How abominable.”

“I suppose. I got very badly chilled once, and then Raph took pity on me and told me the truth. It’s rotten being the youngest brother sometimes, you know.”

“Poor dear. I’m afraid the cards aren’t anything so exciting. Only common kestrels.”

“Oh, that’s all right. They still look very fine.”

“They were a gift from my mother; she was the one who taught me to play cards.”

“Your _mother_? How delightful. She must be absolutely terrifying.”

“Not really. Exceedingly clever and very practical, yes. She was. She’s dead now.”

For a moment, Gabriel freezes. Then he wiggles so that they are face-to-face. His expression is stricken and full of self-reproach.

“Oh, hell. I knew that, or I ought to have done—I’m sorry, Francis. I never _think_.”

“Never you mind,” he says. There is a line of consternation creasing Gabriel’s forehead, and he rubs at it with his thumb. When it had first happened, he would have sunk his teeth into any of his friends who dared show him pity, but the acute sting of grief has faded, and there is something sweet about Gabriel’s sympathy. “You had no cause to remember.”

They are quiet for a moment, staring at each other. One of Francis’s hands is resting on his chest and Gabriel picks it up, turning it to and fro, interlacing their fingers.

“You bite your nails?”

“Just the one,” Francis says in consternation, tucking his thumb between their clasped palms as though he can hide it. “Filthy habit. It drives my valet mad.”

Gabriel withdraws his hand, forcing Francis to straighten his fingers. He looks up from under his lashes as he sucks Francis’s thumb in his mouth with a soft sigh, nipping at the jagged nail with his teeth. Francis swallows.

“You are shameless,” he says when he is again capable of speech.

“What have I done to be ashamed of?” Gabriel asks innocently. “I would never be so forward with a stranger—but with my lover, I think I have every right.”

“Indeed.” Francis tilts up his chin for a lazy kiss. “Will you stay the night?” he asks recklessly.

“Yes.” The response is immediate, and some of Francis’s surprise must show on his face, because Gabriel clarifies, “I mean, I would never dream of intruding on your hospitality, my good sir, but if you insist—”

“I do insist. I should be delighted to host you, my lord.” He kisses the tip of Gabriel’s nose, just for the smile it will earn him, and extricates himself with some difficulty from his embrace. “Wait a moment.”

“What _are_ you doing?” Gabriel laughs as Francis scoops up the boots, breeches, and assorted other garments from where they have been discarded.

“Protecting the delicate sensibilities of my servants,” Francis says, taking a moment to pass a handkerchief over the table. “I want to make it look as though you’ve slept in the guest room opposite mine, and reassure myself that my valet is not waiting up in the hopes that I might need assistance evicting you from the premises.”

“Your valet doesn’t like me? How insulting. He doesn’t even know me. But then, I assume he is one of those fanatically loyal types.”

“Do I seem the type to inspire fanatic loyalty?” Francis asks as he raises an eyebrow, lingering in the doorway. Gabriel has propped himself up on the arm of the couch, his head tilted on his crossed arms.

“There isn’t much _I_ wouldn’t do for you, at the moment.”

“I assure you, dear Gabriel, my valet has no such motivations. No, it is simply that, having condescended to valet for a mere Mr., and a Mr. of trade at that, he has a vested interest in maintaining my dignity. And it is possible that I have stoked the fire, once or twice, by complaining of a certain young hound who _would_ insist on foisting himself on me at social engagements, although I neglected to tell him the real reason for my irritation. Now, if you will excuse me, I will make preparations to drag you naked into my bedroom with all haste.”

“By all means, do not let me delay you.”

Francis mounts the steps two at a time, his senses alert to any other creak of floorboards, any gleam of lamp or candlelight, that might hint at another member of the household being awake. Kendrick has a separate bedroom tucked beside his, with no connecting door; when Francis has satisfied himself that it is as quiet and dark as the grave, he deposits some of Gabriel’s clothing in his own room. He drops the rest in the room across the hall, and disarranges the blankets and pillows. At the last moment, caution compels him to fetch a dressing gown as well. If they _are_ found out by an insomniac footman or a maid with a toothache, having Gabriel naked but for a dressing gown in the middle of the foyer is no less dangerous than having him entirely naked—but even so, there is a limit to how much fate ought to be tested.

Gabriel is still lying on the couch when Francis returns to the drawing room, but he has turned over and draped himself over the cushions in a brazen display worthy of a Titian. Francis’s gait stutters as his eye follows the line of that exquisite body, from the hollow of his throat to the soft cock lying heavy across the thighs. The smirk on Gabriel’s face grows more pronounced, and that decides him; he dumps the dressing gown unceremoniously on his face. Gabriel lets out a yelp of laughter and struggles into a more seated position.

“You have been so keen to get me out of my clothes all evening, and now you are impatient for me to get back into them,” he accuses.

“I am impatient to get you into my bedroom. And that is not your clothes—it is only my dressing gown.”

“So it is.”

Gabriel stands and wraps himself in the robe. It’s not especially flattering on him—shades of olive green and brown in a diamond pattern—but a moment later, the last two guttering candles in the candelabra flicker out, leaving them in darkness. Francis takes a step closer, one hand drifting up to cup Gabriel’s elbow, and attempts to kiss him. His misses slightly, ends up kissing just beneath the inner corner of his eye, and hears a warm, throaty chuckle that makes his heart skip a beat.

“You’ll have to escort me, Mr. Webster.”

“Happily,” he says, proffering his arm, and they make it upstairs with a minimum of stumbling. When they reach the bedroom, Francis sits on the bed but Gabriel lingers for a moment, looking around at his surroundings.

“What is this fabric all on the walls?” he asks, examining a small tapestry depicting a hound chasing after a fox through a verdant forest. “I noticed downstairs.”

“Oh yes, the tapestries.” Francis reclines. “You, with your blood as blue as pure indigo, can have no way of knowing this, but the number of things that a snob can make a commoner feel inferior over is nigh incalculable. I have endured several snide comments because I do not have grand paintings of ugly ancestors to hang on my walls, and so eventually I decided to make a point of hanging tapestries instead. If people want to mock the weaver’s brat for his shockingly expensive and tasteful collection of medieval and Baroque tapestries, they are more than welcome to do so—they only make themselves look foolish.” He pauses. “Although _that_ one was made by grandfather. Once he reached a certain age, he felt comfortable attempting more fanciful work.”

“Really? It’s rather marvelous. You seem to have an exceptionally interesting family.”

“Thank you.”

He wanders around for another moment, looking at things, and then he turns to Francis. His arms are crossed, and there is a sheepish tilt to his lips.

“It’s a strange thing to feel self-conscious about, but… well, I’ve never been in another fellow’s bedroom before. Except for school, I suppose, but that hardly counts.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“The other men you—”

“I told you, I’ve never had a lover. There’s never been time to want for variety, only what is most convenient, and I live more or less independently, so Chamford House is often what’s convenient. My bedroom at Warminster Hall, once or twice, and Millay’s.” He hesitates. “Hyde Park, once.”

Francis groans.

“I am very glad I did not know that sooner. It would have driven me mad—and you have driven me quite close to madness already.”

Gabriel steps forward and lounges across the bed.

“I shan’t apologize. If you had been less patient, we could have begun a long time ago.” He drops a light kiss on Francis’s lips, and then draws back. There is a gleam of something in his eyes. He pauses for a moment and licks his lips. “Earlier, you said—you said you would sit at the gaming table and dream of pulling me over it. Did you think of that elsewhere, too?”

“I daresay I did.”

“In this room?”

“Yes,” Francis says, voice perfectly bland, and Gabriel pulls a face at his deliberate obtuseness.

“I want to watch.”

“You may do much more than watch.”

“I know. But the idea of watching—it excites me.”

God, if that wasn’t enough. More than enough. Francis buries a hand in his hair and kisses him first, licking into his mouth until Gabriel is pliant and gasping against his side. But the younger man tears himself away, his flushed lips set in a determined pout.

“Touch yourself,” he orders breathlessly. “I won’t touch you until you do.”

“You are too cruel.”

“ _I’m_ too cruel? You had me downstairs in your sitting room for _hours_ we could have been in bed—or on the table. You have only yourself to blame.”

Immediately obedient, Francis reaches for the closure of his breeches, but Gabriel pops up and waves at him.

“Up, up. Naked.”

He helps divest Francis of his coat, then removes his cravat, undoes every button of his shirt, and tugs it off. Everything is piled in an untidy heap on the floor, and then he kneels to help Francis with his boots. Francis’s cock strains against his buckskins, and Gabriel looks up with a crooked grin.

“Thought about be on my knees a lot, have you?”

“Yes.”

Gabriel tosses the boots away and rubs his hands up Francis’s thigh. His mouth is so close to Francis’s cock but, true to his word, he does not look, let alone touch. He is looking up at Francis, madder-blue eyes dark with lust.

“Tell me,” he says in a hushed voice, an order so sweet Francis would say anything, true or false, that he wanted to hear. “I want to know everything.”

“Everything,” Francis repeats. He pushes down his breeches and his linens and stands naked at the foot of the bed, Gabriel kneeling before him—wearing his dressing robe—eyes riveted on his face. He is almost painfully hard, again, and to be free of the constraining cloth is a relief. He squeezes the base of his cockstand, determined to draw it out, determined that Gabriel will give in before he does. “The truth is, I wanted you from the beginning. From that first night. You looked me up and down and I would have made my own introduction and cordially invited you to the alley behind the club for a good fucking if you hadn’t opened your mouth first. But you did, and so I spent several days imagining instead how I would receive my satisfaction. I thought of you sucking me, bent over before me, all the ways you might beg for me… It took three days for me to give in to the temptation.”

“Three whole days?” Gabriel pouts, and Francis laughs breathlessly.

“Yes. Not until you approached me at White’s—beautiful and agitated, wanting my good opinion and resentful at having to ask for it. I went home that evening instead of going to Millay’s because I couldn’t bear to fuck anyone who wasn’t you, and when I couldn’t hold back any longer, I did this.” He strokes himself slowly, and Gabriel’ tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Picturing you just like this, on the floor at my feet.”

He holds out his hand and without hesitation Gabriel laves at his palm. Francis takes hold of himself again and buries his other hand in Gabriel’s hair.

“What else?” Gabriel asks. His breathing is getting harsher, and he shifts his weight on his knees.

“It would be easier, I think, to describe what I did not imagine. I wanted everything. I do want everything. I thought of working myself to completion all over your beautiful face. I thought of you sucking me dry and then turning me over and fucking me proper. Or tying me to the bed and sitting on my cock and wringing your pleasure from me—”

“Good God, Francis.” Gabriel surges to his feet and kisses him, a harsh, demanding kiss very like their first—and isn’t that a thrilling phrase, Francis thinks when he takes a moment to breathe, slightly dazed and burning up with desire. _First kiss_. Because first implies a second, and possibly another, and more and more after that—Gabriel is mouthing at his ear and the side of his jaw, wet and hot, and it takes Francis a moment to realize he’s speaking, too, in a breathless, desperate voice. “How often did you think of me? Because I must be honest with you: I had your prick in me not half an hour ago and already I am desperate for it again.”

“Every time. Every damn time you sat across the table from me, every ball, every afternoon at White’s. Sometimes I could forget you for a few weeks at a time, but never very long. I—” He swallows as Gabriel wraps his fingers around his prick, and perhaps that is why he blurts out something he will regret in the morning. “When I was in Lancashire, I would think of rolling around with you in the grass. That hair, those eyes—you would gleam in the sunlight. It is a sight I would love to see.”

“Someday, perhaps. For now—lie back.”

Francis obliges him, lying back on the bed, and Gabriel follows him, straddling his waist and kissing him thoroughly, his tongue demanding, his lips in constant motion. The dressing gown is gaping now, and the sensation of silk and hot skin against his is maddening. Francis paws at Gabriel, shoving aside the fabric and taking hold of his arse. A soft, satisfied grunt escapes Gabriel’s throat and he draws back, panting above Francis’s mouth as he rocks back and forth, his prick hard and leaking against Francis’s hip.

“Was it worth it?” he asks.

“What?” Francis replies stupidly, far too gone to understand the question. He catches the way Gabriel bites his lip, however, the way his eyebrows tilt, the sudden flash of something in his eyes, and there is a cold feeling in his chest like a lungful of winter air even before he recognizes it.

“All that waiting. Five years of only yourself and your own hand and your _extremely_ impressive imagination. It couldn’t possibly be worth it, could it?”

Gabriel should never doubt himself, he thinks hazily. Not here, not with Francis. He clutches Gabriel’s hair with both hands and yanks him down for another kiss.

“ _Yes_.” He draws back as little as he can, touching their foreheads together, their breath intermingling, their lips brushing when he speaks. “Victory is always sweeter for the anticipation,” he murmurs in the scant space between them.

He hears a small sigh of relief.

“Which one of us is the victor?”

“Life is not always like a card game, Gabriel,” Francis says with a huff of laughter. “Sometimes everyone wins.”

“That’s good,” Gabriel says.

He straightens, and that is as much warning as Francis gets before suddenly Gabriel is sinking down on him, and a long moan is pulled from his lips.

“Oh, my dear—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gabriel hisses, his head flung back as he begins to roll his hips, his fingers splayed across Francis’s chest for balance. “God—so good—”

He peers down at Francis with his lips parted and his pupils blown wide, grinding down against his cock, and Francis loses his breath. Not half an hour, Gabriel had said, and he was right, but he is still so tight and slick and sensitive, and it drives Francis wild. It is beyond anything he could have imagined, and again his only complaint is that he might spend too soon as pleasure assails him from every front. His fingers dig into Gabriel’s hips so tightly they will leave bruises, and he tries to slow their reckless pace. Gabriel complies, albeit with a protesting whine.

“Are you always this cruel?”

Francis plants one foot flat against the bed for leverage and thrusts up. Gabriel practically howls. He collapses against Francis’s chest and buries his head in the crook of his shoulder, surrendering to him utterly. Francis flings his arms around him and kisses the shell of his ear.

“You’ll have to find out, won’t you?” he murmurs, and his heart gives a thrilled little lurch as Gabriel nods and presses a soft, sweet kiss to his collarbone.

* * *

The next morning, Francis wakes with Gabriel’s head pillowed on his shoulder. His arm has gone numb and, truth be told, he’s overheating a little—but it is an extremely pleasant way to wake up, and he indulges in it for a moment, carding his fingers through his soft hair. Gabriel makes a faint sound in the back of his throat and stretches closer like a cat. They lie like that for a good long time, until Francis glances at the clock and kisses the top of Gabriel’s head.

“Get up.”

“Umph.”

“Get dressed.”

“No.” Gabriel clings to him tighter. “You get _un_ dressed.”

“I am undressed.”

“Oh, good.”

A laugh spills from his lips.

“Impossible creature. My valet will be along shortly, and when he is here, you will not be naked in my bed.”

“Oh, pox.”

Gabriel sits up, yawns, and dresses with much prodding and some assistance. To a discerning eye, he still looks thoroughly debauched—he is in his stocking feet, without his coat, his collar carefully buttoned to hide the marks on his neck but his used cravat discarded. He drapes himself over a settee and fixes his eyes on Francis as he gets up and wraps himself in the very dressing gown Gabriel had donned the night before.

“You get to stay undressed.”

“Yes, darling, I am allowed to be naked in my own bedroom. Typically it is expected. If anyone asks, you woke and were anxious to assure yourself that I would honor our wager, and so came dashing across the hall immediately.” He cups Gabriel’s chin and kisses him lightly on the lips. “But now we are bosom friends, and you are quite assured and pleased about the whole thing.”

“Well _that’s_ true enough.”

Gabriel flings an arm around his neck and kisses him rather more thoroughly—but before it has the time to turn into anything more, there is a light rap on the door. Francis has long since insisted on a knock from anyone entering his bedroom at any hour of the day. It had been horrifying, at first, to his valet and his scullery maid, but they have become accustomed, and if they take this as proof that he’ll always be a tradesman’s son, so be it.

“Come in.”

His valet pauses and hesitates, for just a moment, at the sight of Gabriel. Gabriel grins at him.

“Lord Gabriel and I played late last night, and the fog was dreadful,” Francis says with a dismissive wave. “Make sure the new girl—what’s her name?”

“Sally, sir.”

“Make sure Sally turns down the room across the hall. Betsy never looked in a room she didn’t have to, I’m quite convinced. And help Lord Gabriel finish dressing, won’t you? You look like a Ludgate drunk,” he sniffs at Gabriel, who pops to his feet.

“My thanks. You know, Webster, I don’t care what anyone says, you are a thoroughly decent chap.”

“You’re too kind.”

Kendrick helps Gabriel into his coat and ties a fresh cravat, of Francis’s own stock. Francis is extremely amused to note that the valet opts for a simpler knot, apparently considering that his artistic endeavors are proprietary towards him employer. He is visibly taken aback when Gabriel drops back down onto the bench instead of taking his leave, and he hesitates for a moment before turning to speak to Francis as though his guest is not present.

“Lord Richard’s valet is downstairs, Mr. Webster.”

“Of course he is,” Francis sighs.

“He will wait, naturally, but he bid me tell you that he comes with a message from his lordship, and his lordship would prefer he return with the reply.”

“You know what Richard wants, don’t you?” he says Gabriel. “We have plans for dinner tomorrow, and he wants to know if he should come here or go to Chamford House.”

“He can come to Chamford House if he likes. The way I see it, I owe you a jolly good dinner for letting me play for it back. Come along and bring whoever you like. It will drive Maltravers _mad_ to hear I had Lord Richard to dinner.”

“An intriguing prospect. Tell me, Gabriel, do I strike you as particularly Brummellian?”

“Hm? Well, you dress well, if a bit—”

“Let me stop you before you insult Kendrick’s excellent work, and be more specific: have I given you any indication that I am accustomed to entertaining guests in my dressing room?”

It takes a visible effort for Gabriel to tamp down his smile. He stands and gives a flourishing bow, which hides it a little.

“I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”

He leaves in favor of the room across the hall. A porter arrives with hot water for Francis’s shave, and he instructs him to have breakfast laid in the dining room. He and Kendrick rush through his dressing. The quicker Francis gets Cyprian out of the house, the less chance of him spotting Gabriel himself, or getting some gossip out of the servants. Inevitably he will know; he is the link between Richard’s household and Quex’s, after all. But a few days’ delay would be infinitely preferable. It might save a few of Richard’s disapproving frowns, and Julius’s witticisms, and Dom’s disapproving witticisms.

In tolerable time, Francis is dressed and descending the staircase to find the preeminent valet in London waiting in the entry hall. His bow is correct, but his eyes are disconcertingly sharp.

“Good morning, Mr. Webster.”

“Good morning, Cyprian. Kendrick tells me you have a message from Lord Richard. I suspect I could guess the substance of it.”

“I suspect so, sir. Lord Richard sends his compliments, and asks if your game last night proved satisfactory.”

“That rather depends on your definition, doesn’t it?” Francis says dryly. “I lost thirty thousand pounds and a house, if that’s what Richard’s asking.”

“I will tell him, sir. I am sure he will be happy to know that, despite the loss, you appear in good spirits.”

Francis narrows his eyes. Cyprian stares back, the picture of serenity.

“Yes, well. I already have thirty thousand pounds, and truth be told, I prefer my own house. Lord Gabriel and I both walked away from the table quite satisfied with our winnings, and you can tell Lord Richard his hand-wringing is no longer required.”

There is definitely the hint of a smile on the valet’s face this time, and he bows again.

“Very good, Mr. Webster.”

Cyprian leaves. Francis enters the breakfast room to find a pot of steaming coffee already waiting for him. He sends someone up to tell Gabriel that breakfast is at hand, but before he has descended, another visitor arrives. A footman, this time, bowing and offering the compliments of Mr. Dominic Frey, with a note.

“Hell and the devil,” Francis mutters to himself as he tears it open.

_F—_

_How did the business go last night? R is very concerned, you know. Pride is all well and good, and I know you don’t give a damn for the opinion of M, but it’s no good angering him further by ruining his brother. He could make things difficult if he wanted. Send a note by my man if everything’s gone off properly. If it hasn’t, I suspect it will take some additional cleverness. I don’t mind telling you, dear fellow, that I have_ _quite_ _enough of intrigue in my professional life without getting in situations like this._

_— D_

Francis retreats to his study and scribbles off a quick reply, standing at his desk.

_My dear Dominic_

_The business is quite settled, and I have chosen not to be offended at your implication that I lacked either the sense, the ability, or the tender feelings to act properly. As for R, you need not worry over his nerves for a moment. His valet has already come and gone, even at this ridiculous hour of the morning._

He signs and seals the letter and gives it back to Dominic’s man. And then, finally, Gabriel comes down the steps to join him in the hall, and they are alone.

Of course, they are not alone. There are the footmen, the porter, the valet upstairs, the cook and the kitchen maid in the kitchen, the parlor maid somewhere. They will have some privacy in the breakfast room, but will curb their speech for safety’s sake. Francis cannot eat with one hand and hold Gabriel’s with the other, occasionally lifting it to press a chaste kiss to his knuckles, nor can Gabriel forgo the dining room chairs for a seat in Francis’s lap. But to have him here, in this house, his face brightening at the sight of Francis, the unexpected treasure of morning sunlight gilding his hair—it is enough. By God, it is more than enough.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I can’t say in the middle of your house in the daylight.” Gabriel says in a low voice, drawing close. Now that he is permitted to stare for as long as he likes, Francis is finding it very difficult to look away from his eyes. He works up the will to do so only at Gabriel’s conspiratorial wink, and a chuckle bursts from him involuntarily.

“Breakfast,” he declares, gesturing. “Through there.”

“Oh thank God,” Gabriel says as he enters the room and approaches the sideboard. “I was wondering if that _other_ table was for breakfast and I don’t think I could have kept my composure. I would have been a most unappealing shade of red the entire morning.”

“Nonsense. You look very good in red.”

As Francis sits at the table, he hears voices in the hall. He glances at the door curiously, and a moment later it is opened by a footman.

“Mr. Norreys is at the door, sir, wanting to know if you are at home.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Francis mutters.

“Your friends take morning visits very seriously, don’t they?” Gabriel says, lifting his eyebrows.

“As I said—entirely your fault. Yes, show him in,” he tells the footman. “ Julius is quite capable of making himself a nuisance, but I won’t wait on his pleasure while my breakfast goes cold.”

“Very good, Mr. Webster.”

Julius strides into the room dressed for riding, with his hat in his hands. He stops in his tracks when he sees that Francis is not alone, and a cat-got-the-cream smile crosses his face. Francis sighs. This was inevitable, after all.

“Good morning, Julius.”

“Good morning, Francis,” Julius says in an arch voice. “And Lord Gabriel.”

“Good morning.”

“I must say, I would not have expected to find the two of you in such a coze. You must have a very forgiving nature, my lord.”

“Oh, you’ve heard about the other night, then?” Gabriel says cheerfully, applying a liberal amount of marmalade to his toast. “Well, that’s all settled. Webster gave me the chance to play for my losses back last night. Awfully decent of him.”

“Did he? How generous. I don’t suppose you played piquet again.”

“No, écarté first. That’s more my game, and I wasn’t doing _too_ badly, I think, but then Webster suggested—”

“Backgammon?”

“Dice,” Gabriel says, a note of confusion in his voice, and Francis glares at Julius so hard he might burn a hole in his ridiculous chartreuse waistcoat. “Do people play backgammon for stakes like that? I don’t think I’ve ever heard—”

Francis indulges in a heavy sigh and covers Gabriel’s hand with his.

“I am afraid Julius is stooping to punnery, my dear,” he says. “You’ll find he does that quite often, all while insisting that he doesn’t.”

“I don’t—”

“Shall I pass on the news to Richard and the others?” Julius interrupts. “I am sure they will be eager to wish you joy as well.”

“You may go to the Devil.”

“The others?” Gabriel repeats. His lips are parted and his brows furrowed as he looks between them. “You don’t mean you _told_ —?” Then his eyes widen. “ _Oh_.”

“Yes,” Francis says, and Gabriel bursts into laughter. He claps a hand over his mouth in an attempt to suppress it, but still his shoulders shake with mirth. Francis can’t help the indulgent smile that creeps over his face—he does not consider himself a fanciful man, but still, there is something fae about Gabriel and his untouchable good humor that prompts delight.

“Good gracious,” Julius says mildly when Gabriel finally manages to draw a breath.

“Mal—would _murder_ someone if it would get him in with the Ricardians—”

“You, most likely,” Julius says in an aside to Francis.

“I thought I told you to go to the Devil.”

“And all this time—oh, that is above everything!”

“Quite.” Julius tugs at his gloves. “You’ll find that Richard has very high standards, so prepare to be greeted with a sermon upon your next excursion to Quex’s, albeit a very strange, convoluted sort of sermon unlike any you’ve heard from the local rector. Also it remains to be seen whether Richard has forgiven Francis for his ungentlemanly conduct two nights prior, so do expect to face questions regarding whether you—how shall I put this delicately—exchanged favors for thirty thousand pounds, but—”

“Oh Lord, no. That all came after.”

“ _Did_ it? Richard will be so pleased to hear it,” Julius says, although there is a merciless glitter in his eyes that says he is far more amused than he ought to be, and Francis decides it is high time for the interview to end.

“What was your purpose in calling, Julius?” he asks pointedly.

“Oh, general friendship and solicitude. I thought you might like to join me on my morning ride again, but clearly I was incorrect.”

“Clearly. You had better go now, before Hyde Park is overrun.”

“I think I will. Good morning, Francis, Ash,” he says with a sweeping bow. “Quex’s for supper?”

“I expect so.”

Julius takes his leave. Gabriel’s gaze lingers on the door for a moment, and then he turns and lifts an eyebrow.

“Morning ride?” he echoes.

“Julius is a very capable horseman, and he enjoys a trot around the Park before most of Polite Society has cracked an eye open. I myself see no need for exercise so early in the morning—although I did join him once, six months ago, when I inexplicably felt the need to clear my head in the brisk morning air.”

This explanation proves satisfactory, and they settle into a comfortable silence as they eat. Gabriel takes his coffee very light, Francis notes with amusement, and with a good deal of sugar. He wonders if Gabriel is accustomed to a cup of hot chocolate in the mornings, as opposed to being a habitual coffee-drinker. Francis can certainly make an addition to the breakfast table, if this is to become a regular occurrence.

The thought gives him a great amount of pleasure, and the half-smile on his face prompts an answering smile from Gabriel.

“This is a much pleasanter breakfast than I had yesterday,” he says, his voice a quiet murmur to keep from disturbing the peace of the room.

“I am not at all surprised. _I_ awoke feeling rather sick yesterday morning, and I am sure I had drunk much less than you did.”

“Mm. You ought to spend the night at Chamford House soon, so that I may repay you for your hospitality. And your very generous loan of your dressing gown.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes.” Gabriel is fighting a grin, his eyes wide and innocent. “I have a very nice dressing gown of my own, and it would bring me the greatest pleasure to see you wearing it, despite—or perhaps due to—the fact that it will be several inches too short.”

“I would be happy to oblige you. We must begin our card lessons soon, anyway.”

“Piquet,” Gabriel groans. “To tell you the truth, Francis, I have _thoroughly_ gone off piquet. Must we?”

Francis loses his resolve. He takes hold of Gabriel’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Oh, we must—eventually. But a strong foundation is necessary to play any kind of card game really well, and we must begin anew if you are to master the complexities of piquet. I believe, my dear, we will begin with Patience.”


End file.
